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Rated: 13+ · Column · Comedy · #1799154
A work in progress. A short piece on dressing in a hurry.
Anyone with common sense knows that dressing and being in a hurry do not mix. Luckily, I’ve never been burdened with an overabundance of common sense and, in fact, that’s often exactly the scenario that plays out for me most mornings as I ready myself for the day.

Part of the problem is that my brain has its own sense of humor, and one of its favorite things to do is to help me sleep in. It willfully disconnects my ears and hits its own ignore button when it detects the sound of my alarm clock. It’s not easy living with a brain that goes rogue on you.

Thus begins my frantic morning dressing routine which, fortunately, multitasks into a light workout as well. I start with a warm up run into the bathroom. After several laps grabbing towels and fumbling out of my nightclothes, I grab a quick shower which is really more of an apoplectic fit in and out of the spray leading to my Native American name: Dances With Soap.

A brief towel off and losing battle with a comb later, and I’m ready for the core of my aerobics program: putting on pantyhose. First is deciding which is the front and back of the things, which is much harder than it looks first thing in the morning. As I fight unrelenting waves of “go back to bed,” I start gathering up one of the legs of the pantyhose trying to get my fingers down to the toe area. The problem being that by the time I get there, I’ve quite lost interest in whole thing.

Shaking off the sleepiness I plunge a foot into the gathered hose hoping I didn’t get the leg turned around as I gathered it up. If I did, I may have to spend the rest of the workday with one leg turning to the right or left while the other points straight ahead. I’ll either look grossly pigeon-toed or about to leave at all times. Unfortunately, because of my tight schedule, there won’t be time to readjust.

My skin blooms a bright red, and the sweat begins to bead as I roll around the floor wrestling my lower limbs into their nylon straight jacket; sucking all the oxygen out of the room as I work. My hands chafe against the gathered hose as I work them rapidly up one leg and then the other. My pulse races, my lungs huff, and I can feel the burn! .

When my hands finally circle my waist, the last of the nylon slipping off my thumbs, and my body splayed flat on the floor, I’m ready for a short cool down. Laying there, I pant with accomplishment while my husband looks on, standing in the bedroom doorway, chuckling. I am the ultimate multitasker: dressing, exercising, and entertaining all at the same time.

Springing up from the floor and making my way to the closet, I check my results. As I seem to be capable of forward motion, both legs arriving at my destination at the same time, I conclude that all parts of my pantyhose are pointing in the same direction. A victory!

Now I select the appropriate parts of an outfit for the day paying less than adequate attention to color and pattern, but making sure that all pieces appear to have been made in the same decade. Once dressed, it’s onto the second phase in my daily exercise routine.

If the “stop, drop, and roll” of the pantyhose engagement works my lower body, this next part works my arms and upper body to the same degree. The next few minutes are spent in front of the bathroom mirror using comb, hairdryer, clips, hairspray, and static electricity to sculpt my hair into a workable (if frightening) style for the day. My arms and shoulders ache by the time I’m done, and my heart races again. Now the beads of sweat that flow anew threaten to rearrange my frantically applied makeup into something reminiscent of Picasso’s work. As it is, I’m more of a messy Monet, but it’ll have to do. I’m late.

Finally presentable, at least for the crowd I work with, and probably needing another shower, I rush out the door ready to spend another productive day counting the hours until I can get home and get into something more comfortable.

It may be true that dressing and being in a hurry don’t mix, but most mornings I can delude myself into thinking that I make it work beautifully. On a really good morning and a latte sugar rush, I can even imagine that the looks I get as I walk from car to office are admiration for the well-put-together image I must convey. My little fantasy world usually lasts until I notice the two different shoes I have on, that the comb holding up my beautiful hairstyle isn’t a decorative one, or that my slip somehow bunched up around my waist after I used the bathroom. Oh yeah, I rock.

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