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EACH MORNING when I get dressed I hear snickering from one side of my closet. That’s where all my skinny pants hang out. I can’t fit into about five pairs of jeans, two of them never even worn. I bought them on a day when I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and though they were a tad snug I told myself I’d lose a few pounds and they would fit great. Wrong. Instead I gained a few and now they are simply out of the question, stuck in the closet forever, or until I stop eating ice cream when I’m sad, which is unlikely considering so many things, including who wins the election next month. Still I keep them because I’m determined they’ll fit me again. Someday.
There’s also grumbling coming from the other end of the closet. That’s where my former fat clothes live, and they are pissed. Along with a couple of dresses there’s that expensive black cashmere coat, perfect for going to the symphony or to a funeral. It looks ridiculous on me now, more like a bathrobe than anything else. Fortunately I haven’t needed it since moving to Maine as the only funeral I have attended was in the summer. As for the symphony, people wear jeans and flip-flops to everything in America’s Vacationland, including funerals I found out.
The loudest noise comes from the shoes lining the closet floor and dispensing a cacophony of boos, taunts and bitter complaints over not being worn despite how attractive they are, how very supportive, and how much better than the $27 plastic Crocs I have sported since the snows melted last May. I assure them that winter is coming so at least the boots will soon have their day in the sun. Well, you know, their day.
