So this morning I get out of bed at 7:15 with sleep in my eyes and war in my heart. Today is the day.
It is time to do battle.
I shlump out to the shower and time myself by how high the water gets in the undraining tub. Once it hits about mid-calf, I turn off the water and reach for my towel. In the latent dripping of the water from the faucet I can softly detect the Eye Of The Tiger song.
Dun dun DUN.
Dun dun DUN.
Dun dun DUUUUUUUUN.
I wipe the steam off the bathroom mirror and smear a swatch of moisturizer over each cheek, commando style. Stalking into the bedroom, I discard my towel and do a couple of jumping jacks, silently talking myself up to a victory. “Oh, yeah, today’s the day,” I tell myself. “You are going to look hot as the fourth of July. You’re a stone cold fox. You’re a diva of workplace wardrobe. You’re Angelina Jolie. You’re Marion Cotillard. You’re Christopher Lambert from Highlander. You GOT this.”
And I open my drawers.
And they’re empty.
It seems that I had forgotten to do laundry.
Understand, dear Internet, that I hate to do laundry. I don’t know why. Laundry is an easy, simple chore that can be done by an eight year old or any standard issue robot maid, but for some reason it just annoys the skittles out of me. It’s right up at the top of my List Of Things I Hate To Do, just above ‘badminton’ and ‘dying’. Taylor, sweetheart that he is, has been doing my laundry for me, but there is a time when a gal must take a deep breath and do what needs to be done.
Apparently yesterday was not that day.
So I go through my Slightly Dirty Clothes, things that maybe were only worn half the day, and come up with a cheap grey dress from Forever 21, a lacy camisole from Maurice’s, black tights, and my sexy boots. Decent enough, but possibly not enough to outfox Cute Girl at work. It would have to do.
I clacked into the office, feeling eerily conspicuous against a backdrop of pleated pants and shoulder pads, but fairly confident, nonetheless. I didn’t see Cute Girl all morning. Every time I had to leave my corner of the building on some errand, I scanned empty rooms, perused the cubicles, and generally owled my way through the day, craning my head backwards every time I heard a footstep that could possibly be the sound of a kitten heel. It was a disappointment, I thought, clomping back to my office with a sent fax in my arms. All dressed up and nowhere to WAIT WHO IS THAT.
Briefly, like a fading dream, I saw a door to a corner office closing in slow motion. And beyond that door, standing in a pose of callous nonchalance, was Cute Girl.
The door shut and she was gone. It was a tease. A single shot fired as my adversary escaped.
The worst part, my friends? The sting in that dismissal?
She was wearing jeans. I’m not allowed to wear jeans.
AND SHE WAS TOTALLY HOT IN THEM.
This isn’t over, Cute Girl. Round Two is coming. You better be ready.