You know those days when you put on something to wear because you're late or uninspired at having to put clothes on your body that you're a little pissed at that morning anyway?
Well wonder of wonders, after staying up way too late talking to a customer with a stogie and cognac in hand (me, not him) I spent the night in Madison, GA and got way too little sleep and dragged my feet through the next day, so that upon finally making it home after miraculously not killing myself on the drive, I totally overslept this morning.
This could help explain the horribly mimatched tones of gray green and gray that I threw together while cursing and rushing out of the house.
See, there is this really weird phenomenon that happens to me in the morning. I used to think it was unique to my old apartment in Decatur where pimples seemed to disappear, mismatched socks looked the same color, and all cat hair was completely camouflaged. Until I would get out of my car in the parking lot at work and look down at the one gray and one black sock, and the two uncomplimentary tones of black clothes completely covered in masses of caramel colored Max hair. This would happen on a regular basis when I lived in Decatur. I used to just think my studio had this Vermeer like light that made everything look ok. The light was half the reason I chose it in the first place.
But I suppose it has nothing to do with place, because this morning I was rushing in to my office and looked down at the gray green jacket I had so horribly paired with a gray shirt and gray green pants, and suddenly my whole day was shot before it even began. I don't know if I am uniquely narcissistic or just kind of loopy, but if I don't like what I'm wearing, it can ruin my whole day. Seriously. So my day was kind of mismatched and gray, and I interpreted an email in the most negative way possible so I could feel even grayer.
And then later in the evening a friend said loudly in the middle of a French restaurant, "You don't look fat!" when I hadn't even mentioned it. She's a dear, but she's the type to ask you about your yeast infection in a crowded cafe next to a table of guys you were eyeing.
So blah. Is it that I am so much of a noztna ptiza that I can't function correctly in the morning enough to pick out something flattering?
Is is that I am really tired of living out of two suitcases after six months?
What the hell am I going to do with all my stuff when I finally find a home?
I hope they have Goodwill in France.