The Dreaded Pile

I made a mistake this morning—walked into the bathroom with my reading glasses on and looked into the mirror.  All I can say is, wow, time sure knows how to kick your fanny.  Take away:  Ignorance really is bliss.  There’s a reason our “close up” vision starts to falter as we age.  Faces wearing glasses with magnification were not meant to encounter mirrors.  Enough said.

On a happier note, I attacked the pile last night.  Pile?  What pile?  What is she talking about?  Oh, you know—it’s the clothes pile created when you’re trying to find the right outfit to wear before rushing  out of the house to head to work, lunch with your friends, church—whatever.  You know how it starts—you think, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll wear this!”  You try it on and you think, “Wow that looks terrible.  How could I have ever worn this mess?  I’d better try something else.”  And before you know it, an unseemly pile of rejected outfits has been produced.  In my bedroom, the wicker chest is the pile’s foundation stone.  At first there’s just a piece or two gently draped across the top.  By the end of the tortuous trying-on-and- tearing-off process, I’m flinging stuff with abandon and the clothes start approaching the ceiling at an alarming rate.  Now the poor chest is groaning under the weight of all that finery.  Finally a semi-suitable outfit is constructed, and out the door I fly.  As you may or may not know—this same scenario can happen for several days.  After a while the pile starts to mock.  You begin to hate entering your bedroom or closet –you know your eyes will be accosted by that horrible multi-colored mound once again, and it starts to get to you.

Then the day of reckoning arrives.  “Those clothes can’t just lie there in a pile for all eternity!” you say to yourself as determination starts to course through your veins.  So last night was it for me—I manned up, so to speak, and marched right over to that cotton/polyester/spandex mountain and started in.  It was a painful experience hanging up all those articles of clothing—but after an absurdly extended period of time, the tan tones of the wicker chest reappeared.  Victory!  And you know what?  I foolishly promised myself that I’d never let a pile of clothes accumulate like that again.  Well, I meant it when I said it—honest.