It’s not uncommon, during Hell Month, for me to hurt myself a lot. Not intentionally, not in a cutting kind of way, but I get worn out, tired and inattentive, and forget piddling little details, like watching where I’m going, lifting my feet, or using a potholder… and pain is the result.
As a “wake up and smell the coffee, Jz!” defense mechanism, it hasn’t been particularly effective. Year after year, I continue to let work get to me, continuing to get worn out and tired… and thereby hurt.
So this year, the powers that be have apparently decided to up the ante - if pain doesn’t force me to take care of myself, they’re gonna try mortification. This year, rather than hurting myself, I have been self-inducing a veritable plague of wardrobe malfunctions.
First, I caught my lacy cardigan on the outside door handle as I dashed off to work. Like, to the point that it yanked me backwards (and spilled my coffee all over my shirt) when I hit the end of the material’s stretch factor. So I had to go around with a big ol’ hole over my hip for the chilly portion of the morning. (Not to mention the coffee stain on my bosom in the warmth of the afternoon sun.)
But hey, I’ve looked worse…
Hmmm… that didn’t seem to faze her.
Okay, try something else…
I got a bit too absorbed in my morning blog perusal and had to put on a burst of speed. I hopped up from my easy chair, gathered my things, pulled on my shoes, and was almost to the door… when I realized that the zipper of the throw cushion I had been leaning against had inveigled itself into a loop of thread on my shirt and was dangling in the small of my back... making me both look and feel like an over-sized earring holder.
Which, frankly, made me laugh pretty hard.
That wasn’t the effect we were going for.
Time to pull out the big guns…
I plunked into the car, gathering the folds of my favorite gauzy cotton skirt around me. I fastened the seat belt, wondering why I was having such difficulty pushing it in. I slammed it home hard and went on my merry way, only to be five minutes late to a meeting because I was stuck in my car, carefully teasing an 8-inch hank of gauzy cloth back out of the seatbelt lock.
A hip-hole in my cardigan is one thing but one in my skirt is quite another...
Maybe I should slow down a little?
All right, that seems to have gotten through to her.
One more should drive the message home…
The bed was festooned with bits of clothing I’d been too tired to put away when I undressed the night before…, but there were plenty of clear spaces, as well. So I plunked myself down on one of them and blearily started to dress.
“Undies…, check.
Top…, check.
Skirt…, check.
Shoes… wait a minute…
What’s wrong with my skirt? Something feels weird…”
As well it should, since yesterday’s sloppily-discarded bra had gotten hooked into the lace of today’s panties and was hanging vertically down the back of my leg, an entire D-cup portion visible below the hem of my skirt.
Okay, Universe.
I get the message!
She says that now.
Who wants to take a bet on how long it lasts?
