Out of the Closet and Nothing to Wear by Newman Lesléa

Author:Newman, Lesléa [Newman, Lesléa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1555834159
Publisher: Curtis Brown Digital
Published: 2012-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

So Many Clocks, So Little Time

“C’mon, Flash, we’ll be late for the movie.” I point to Aunt Yenta’s bagel-shaped clock ticking above the kitchen table. The big hand is on the cream cheese, and the little hand is on the lox. Translation: ten minutes to six and counting.

“One second.” Flash is in the bathroom sculpting the back of her head into a perfect DA. Of course, my waist-length locks have been beautifully combed for over an hour, proving my theory correct: The shorter the hair, the longer it takes to coif.

“Two-minute warning,” I shout, ducking into my walk-in closet. As long as Flash is up to her elbows in Brylcreem, I might as well change my shoes. I’ve been having doubts about the compatibility of stirrup pants and platform pumps all day. But as soon as I change my shoes, I change my mind: The shoes are right, the pants are wrong.

“Are you ready?” Flash peeks into my closet, sees me standing there half naked, and decides she has time to water the plants. I emerge in the perfect outfit to wear to a pitch-black movie theater, see Flash cooing to my wandering Jew (“Drink up, Moishe”), and decide I have time to do my nails. Flash finishes with the watering can, sees me polishing my pinkie, and decides she has time for a quick sandwich. I blow-dry my hands, smell bacon frying, and decide I have time to clean out the top drawer of my dresser.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Flash comes into the boudoir only to find me sitting on the bed surrounded by panties, panty girdles, panty hose, G-strings, garters, garter belts, silk stockings, French stockings, fishnet stockings, opaque stockings, bras, bustiers, teddies, camisoles, slips, half-slips, merry widows, my passport, my birth certificate, my last will and testament, a Slinky, and two lucky pennies I’ve had since 1965. “Why are you cleaning out your dresser now?” Flash asks.

“Because you were making a sandwich.” I reply.

“I was only making a sandwich because you were doing your nails,” she huffs.

“I was only doing my nails because you were watering the plants,” I puff.

“I was only watering the plants because you were changing your clothes,” Flash shouts.

“I was only changing my clothes because you were combing your hair,” I scream.

“Can’t a person take five seconds to comb her hair?” Flash yells.

“Not if those five seconds leave me enough time to change my outfit four times,” I shriek. Then I soften. “Oh, never mind. Let’s just go.” I dump my entire life back into my drawer and let Flash help me on with my coat.

My darling is a little suspicious: It’s not like me to abandon an argument that has great potential for developing into a full-blown, rip-roaring, knock-down-drag-out fight. But I restrain myself in the hopes of accomplishing my mission: to get my punctuality-challenged girlfriend out of the house by the time the big hand is on the butter (6:22).

We get into the car, and I pop Melissa Etheridge into the tape deck so Flash won’t be tempted to turn on the radio.

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