Not two hours ago I was gazing into the closet, appraising my funerary wardrobe with despair and shrieking into the next room, "To hell with it! I'm wearing pants and a sweater tomorrow and you can go to hell, hell, hell!"
Quiet.
Me devising another onslaught. How dare he not rise to the bait?
Swift muttering from the computer room followed by Genesis on Rhapsody (sounds like a biblical perversion, no?).
Phil Collins' voice is the ultimate sedative. The Boy is aware of this and will put his knowledge to genius effect--usually as a last attempt at self-preservation.
That was the low. I may have sulked a bit. I may have shed one tear into a bowl of lukewarm leftover chili. Perhaps while blubbering the lyrics to "Throwing it all Away."
But I rallied, abandoned the gorgeous pink and green concoction that I would never have pulled off (sorry, you know who), frankensteined a darker ensemble, trod down to Elmwood amidst approving thunder and found my salvation...in shoes.
1 comment:
tee hee. I swear, one look at these shoes and you'll understand.
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