Every day before I leave the house for work, I present myself to Ed and ask how I look. It’s not a fashion thing, as he doesn’t get to tell me what to wear – we have wildly dissimilar tastes, and if I let him have a say in my wardrobe my life would have a lot fewer sequins and my feather boas would never get any love. The entire “how do I look?” routine is merely a precautionary measure – he makes sure I’m wearing pants and my shoes are on the right feet, and I am comforted knowing that I pass mustard.

This morning, though, Ed said something to me he’s never said before:

“You look professional!”

Sadly, it’s true. I look like I work in a high rise office building in downtown Vancouver – which I *do*, but still. I’m positively .. appropriate, and it’s kind of making me sick. The boobs are covered – the pants, while denim, are elegant and stylish – there’s a cardigan involved – and I’m wearing HEELS. There isn’t a trace of glitter on my face, and my hair looks recently combed. Who is this person, and what has she done with the real me?

My metamorphosis can be rather easily explained away, though: it’s Laundry Day, and we’re at Alert Level Fuchsia. I literally have no normal clothing left that I could wear outside a ballroom dance competition or a ditch digging party. If we don’t take laundry in tonight, I may have to go nude at PAX.

The heels weren’t entirely necessary, though. The cut of the pants is such that if I don’t wear an elevated shoe, I all but disappear in a wad of fabric and hair. With the (admittedly fabulous) addition of a 1.5” heel, I gain visible feet and a straighter spine. These things will do me no good at all when I inevitably catch my foot on my flapping pant leg and go sailing headfirst down the stairs, but at least I look presentable when I am standing perfectly still.

I will be glad when my regular clothes come back clean.