On a lighter note, so innocent pre-rejection, I had to return some clothes yesterday. One item was a black dress that looked like I was wearing a sack. The other a pair of work-shorts. Who wears work shorts? People much taller than me, obviously. So I went to the store to make the returns and, while there, tried on more things. I found a black skirt that came to the knee with a shirred waistband and I thought, Hmmm, I wonder what that would look like? So I put it on. It was an odd shape but also quite comfortable. I made a few turns in the mirror, considering. Then, mid-turn, I had a realization.

That’s not a skirt, I thought. That’s a SHIRT.

I pulled the skirt up and—look! A strapless shirt. I pulled it back down . . . skirt. Up: shirt. Down: skirt. Up: shirt. Down: skirt.

I could not, for the life of me, figure out what it was. I considered asking the salesperson but then realized—skirt or shirt—it really wasn’t too flattering, so there was no point buying it, no matter the outcome.

You know, I only make attempts to dress halfway decent when I have a job to go to. When I’m writing over the weekends I am free to dress however I want: pajamas as clothes, slippers as shoes, or no shoes, shirts as skirts or a skirt as a hat (which is a good way to keep your hair out of your face)… I shouldn’t be allowed to dress myself.