She is standing in her bra and underwear. When the snooze went off she had seven minutes to plan something, but it was the best seven minutes of sleep. It always is. Now is standing, half-naked girl, staring blankly in front of the closet as if she doesn’t know its contents, as if she didn’t buy, color code, and organize by fabric every item her eyes are scanning. And she still can’t bring herself to put a damn thing on.
“Pick something.” She says it out loud so it will mean something.
“Freakin’ Pick something.”
Her head snaps back at the clock. She needs to be on her way in 15 minutes. At least she puts her makeup on like a ninja.
She picks an outfit. She hates the moment the fabric touches her skin; she knows exactly what the mirror will reflect: ugly girl.
She feels frumpy, matronly, repetitive. She I wants to feel sexy, appropriate, and stylish. She rips the outfit off and lashes it onto her neat bed. She tries again.
The clock screams, hurry the hell up. Hurry up. Hurry up. Pick something. Her heart starts beating faster. She’s running late now.
“Whatever these pants are fine. I hate my clothes. Jesus! Ineedtogoshopping! Just pick something.”
She stands in front of the closet, now in pants and a bra. Pick something. Pick something. She thinks it over and over and again. Making it come true. Pick something. She picks something. She sees a top; it’s the opposite of what she wants. She’s over it and late and her day is starting without her. She grabs her yogurt and coffee and she’s out the door.
Tags: outift crisis, pick something, she, ugly girl
