than scrubbing a messy toilet
or cleaning chili that exploded
in the microwave-
is trying on clothes.
It's a job.
It hurts.
It's like a big chunk of truth
that hits you in the face
and scars you for life.
At least when you get my age-
and my size.
Which is over 50-
between a garden gnome
and the Michelin Man.
It doesn't help that dressing room mirrors
show every single flaw.
Right down to the toe hairs
and middle age zits.
I mean, you really have to love yourself
to stare into one of those mirrors
for more than a three second flash.
But usually that is all it takes for me to decide
if I look like a clown,
a baby,
a goth vampire
or a hundred year old pregnant homeless woman.
Wouldn't it be great if we could
instantly design our own clothing?
To have the perfect fit and style and color
at the click of a button?...
...Instead of spending hours and hours
shuffling and stressing
over racks of segregated sizes
and outlandish fashions-
only to find a pair of fuzzy socks
on the 99 cent table.
Where are the middle-age appropriate styles?
I'm too young for purple elastic stretch pants,
but too old for butt-crack hip huggers.
Too young for bedazzled tunics,
but too old for tie dyed tanks.
but too old for see-through teddies.
To young for orthopedic footwear,
but too old for three inch stilettos.
What's a woman to do?
I refuse to wear Winnie the Pooh
on my sweatshirts,
a skull and crossbones on my hoodie,
and a giant rip in the knees of my jeans.
I will not resort to polyester pant suits,
Just My Size jogging pants,
or leather leggings.
I just want to be fashionable
without being foolish.
Until the day comes that I can
look at myself in the dressing room mirror
for more than a second...
till I can feel confident and stylish
with my choice of wardrobe...
till I can walk and breath in new clothes
without pain and suffering
and critical eyes...
I guess I'll go clean the microwave.
