Sometimes I can write about things that don’t matter, right?
I mean, would you mind leaving the deep end of the water with me for a while? Just swim on over here. Let’s drink lemonade and sit where it’s shallow. The tiny waves will lap against our beach chairs as our toes dig deeper and deeper into the wet sand. We’ll take breaks from sipping through brightly colored straws to talk about the books we’ve read lately that have nothing to do with bettering our souls, really (Gone, Girl. ahem), but everything to do with reading a goshdarn good whopper of a tale.
And they make you feel better about the drama you’ve survived because AT LEAST YOU NEVER DID OR EXPERIENCED THAT.
Not that this is the kindest or most compassionate way to weigh life, really; but when we’re talking fictional characters, judge away. And be grateful you’re not HER.
Oh, and I have something to tell you. It’s about a little mission I went on after I finished my job tonight (which is basically to torture people. I mean strength condition them. I mean I LOVE IT. And they do, too. Seriously, these classes have been sold out recently, folks! Exciting, jam-packed-with-energy-and-sweat stuff!).
See, I have all these shows coming up. And I know this phrase is so tired and so ridiculous, because I have a CLOSET FULL OF STUFF, but for these shows–well, I don’t have a thing to wear.
Or maybe, more accurately, the things I have to wear make me want to claw out my eyes and stab myself with a needle, just to add a little excitement to my life, because these clothes! They bore me!
Oh gosh, I realize I sound maybe a little like that French Royal who didn’t understand why there were so many poor and starving people on the streets of Paris, so said, “Let them eat cake!” like a stupid, stupid assonine woman, because didn’t she have a million pairs of shoes in her closet, too?
And why can’t I remember her name?
Wait. I think it’s Marie Antoinette.
I didn’t even google that shiz, guys.
But, I know not feeling particularly excited about one’s clothes is a rather vain thing, in general.
Except for the fact that I am a performer and what you wear on stage is part of the gig, folks. Costumes are so important. Just like you wouldn’t interview on Wall Street without a visit to Brooks Brothers or Anne Taylor first, what you wear matters. Especially on stage, just like especially on Wall Street when you’re trying to make all those dollars. Or something.
So after my classes, I walk into Nordstrom Rack. This is a place that has so much designer stuff that is marked down to all kinds of prices that would make Michael Kors give a blank stare. I had one thing in mind, but I couldn’t find it, so instead I tried on what turned out to be a couple of real stinker outfits.
Side note: I tried these on in the men’s dressing room. And didn’t realize this until way after, when I’d put the stuff away and was about to leave and overheard a saleslady redirecting a woman to the women’s dressing room, saying to stay clear of the dressing room I had clearly NOT stayed clear of. Oh well. I just thought Monday night was the unofficial men’s night at Nordstrom Rack cause ALL THE MEN were there, trying on their polos.
All the men and me, anyway.
I’m feeling discouraged, and finally decide to just ask a saleslady if she has seen what I have in mind.
“Do you know if you guys carry any jumpers?” I ask, “You know–it’s all connected and just one piece?”
She thinks before saying, “Yeah, well, we did. We had like three of them in. A teal and two black. And they were satin, too. But I really doubt they’re still here–everyone loved them and there were so few, so they got snapped up.”
“Were they cool?” I ask, whistfully.
“Oh, they were SO cool,” she says, not really helping at all.
“Where were they?” I ask, anyway.
“This rack,” she says pointing to a rack that is jam packed with maxi dresses,”But I really don’t think they’re here anymore.”
I thank her and then I look.
I go through the entire thing, sliding dresses over, making that screechy sound that metal makes against metal. Nothing. No teal, no jumper, no satin, no nothing.
Finally, there’s just a few garments left when I see a flash of crumpled up teal.
Crumpled up teal satin, folks.
This is looking promising.
I pull out a jumper. It’s the satin teal jumper. And I hurriedly check the size and see that it’s Xsmall.
I tell the saleslady that I found it! I say this so excitedly, like we’re partners in the Amazing Race and she somehow shares in my win or something.
She smiles obligingly as I take it into the dressing room. The, uh, WOMEN’S DRESSING ROOM this time.
It fits. It’s so retro and adorable. It’s perfect for stage. It’s not even expensive and I remember that I have a gift card that will cover it perfectly.
I check out with a cute girl who looks at the jumper and says that she had actually bought it but just returned it, even though she loved it.
“What?! This is yours?”
“WAS mine,” she corrects me.
“Why’d you return it?”
“It didn’t quite sit right on me–but it’s so super adorable.”
‘It’s perfect,” I say, suddenly even more grateful that I had found this prodigal jumper.
She looks down at the Nike high tops I am purchasing, too.
“Are there any more of these?” she asks, “They’re awesome!”
“They were the only ones I saw, but maybe you’ll get lucky,” I say, “And apparently, we have the same style.”
We laugh and I walk out with my jumper and I feel excited and I no longer want to stab myself with a needle because I have to wear boring clothes for my shows.
Now I just need to figure out how many shows I can get away with while wearing the exact same thing. And it’s not like people might think I have a few of the same outfit, either, like they would with a tee shirt and pair of jeans. I mean, it’s a satin teal jumpsuit. One of a kind.
And I am grateful to have found it.
And now I see I’ve been talking too long, cause you are out of lemonade and I’ve still got half a glass.
Here, have some of mine.
And thanks for listening.