The one day of the year is coming when I open my closet and shriek, "I have too many clothes to wear!"
It's almost Halloween, and I'm already in a dither trying to decide which one of my ready-to-wear "looks" to assume:
The first time I wore my mid-calf plain black dress, my husband informed me that I looked as though I'd drifted off the Mayflower. I can pair it with that equally ho-hum black shawl, boots, and the dour look I wore when I discovered three bowls of brackish nachos under my son's bed.
Finding a pair of high-water pants for this look is a cakewalk because my closet is haunted. As soon as I hang a garment inside, it shrinks. That's the only logical explanation because not even a two-for-one sale would possess me to buy a pair of slacks with a zipper that cries for mercy every time I try to budge it.
Along with the pants, I'll add white socks and a misaligned shirt, which is a look I have perfected.
Not long ago while prowling the frozen poultry aisle at the supermarket, I noticed one side of my blouse was drooping two inches longer than the other. I assumed that my hefty purse had skewed the blouse - then I realized that I'd skipped a buttonhole.
I'll wear yesteryear's tight leggings that make my legs look as thin as a wild coyote's and pair them with the estate-sale blouse I bought during my vintage binge. The blouse turned to confetti when it came out of the wash. Perfect!
The hair is already there, too, if I leave the wind-tunnel look that comes naturally every morning. A shot of industrial-strength hair spray, and I'll be too cool for my own autograph.
Every time I wander beyond my ZIP code, I feel obligated to buy a souvenir T-shirt. It'll be tough deciding whether to wear my Chicken 'n' Pickin' shirt from Walnut, Kan., or my Frog Fantasies Museum from Eureka Springs, Ark. With sunglasses and a camera slung around my neck, I have a costume so realistic, it makes me shiver.
Sad to say, I could outfit a convention of hoboes. Any of my threadbare flannel shirts will do, along with any number of jeans with holes worn in them. Open-toed sneakers? Got 'em. No makeup, and I'll look as if I've been homesteading on a freight train.
I can pull this getup together with gold hoop earrings from my bejeweled phase, black baggy pants, and my billowy white blouse. If I wear this costume, though, I'll have to keep it clean for a job interview the next day.
It's a burden having this many outfits and only one perfect day to wear them. Scary, too.