Got home late as usual,
Slipped into an exhausted semi-coma.
Awakened....
The racket and screaming shocked me
Into a bleary panic.
What IS that noise coming from the basement?
Even the dogs are howling, and they're outside.
Annoyed and too tired to be scared,
I held the rail and careened down the stairs,
And slammed open the triple sliding door
On the left side of the closet.
Was this where all the ruckus was coming from?
What the hell?
My closet had transformed into
A fashionista's "Alice in Wonderland"
Pandemonium reigned
And I was suddenly only 5 inches tall.
Spinning through a a whirlwind that rivaled Dorothy's.
Pants and shirts, dresses, skirts flying everywhere!
Luckily, I ducked a heavy leather blazer
As it crashed into a hostile gang of size 6 jeans
Screaming something about elasticity.
Sailing sideways, eyes wide shut
I was not at all surprised to see
That my entire wardrobe - each individual piece
Had suddenly become uniquely personalized
With faces, hair, hands and feet!
And cleverly,
The "make, model and size" were stamped boldly
On each item's expressive forehead.
Everything was swirling toward the extreme left side
Of the closet
Where the outcasts lived.
I could hear chanting.
It did not sound friendly.
The whirlwind zipped me along toward the sound
Through fuzzy, sticky cobwebs
Till I landed on the floor
In "no mans zone".
The size 2's were rioting
Attacking the size 4's and 6's
With moth ball grenades
And broken hangers
Some were carrying picket signs with slogans...
ON STRIKE !!
"Cruel and Unusual Punishment"
"No Fresh Air for 900 days"
"Jailed Without Light"
"Chocolate Stole Our Jobs"
The boots were trying to set up a barircade
While the gloves were working together
To grab the roudiest of the 2's and 4's from behind
(Especially those tie dyed Calvin Kleins
and skinny legged Ralph Laurens)
The leather gloves deftly blindfolded them with scarves
And stuffed them into the hanging Kate Spade purses.
You could see the pathetic prisoners kicking
And hear them screaming
Right through that expensive leather.
What a wild, ungrateful and unruly bunch.
To the center, the bigger 4's
Were in hand-to-hand combat
With the 6's
There was slapping, spitting, cussing
And a full-on cat fight that
Puts the Budwiser cat fight girls to shame.
You would not have believed what the
Diane von Fursterberg wrap-around dress
Said to the Max Mara suit.
All just because the latter had been worn
Once -- a "lean" 6 months ago.
Oddly enough,
All the Prada's were fanning themselves
Chatting cozily and laughing.
They were the only size 4's unengaged
Sitting on the sidelines
Reveling in their exotic glory
And enjoying the show.
They'd been out and about a lot lately,
We all know they are actually
Two sizes bigger than they say -- liars!
Expensive, happy liars.
Then I looked to the right
The 8's and 10's were enjoying a Grand Fiesta
What a spread....frozen margaritas everywhere.
The Dana Buchman capris were draped
Over a plate of fried cheese
Chatting with a stretchy velour Zhara sweatsuit
(a little saggy in the butt if you ask me).
They all looked a little tipsy, tired,
Certainly well-worn,
And quite content in their girth.
The Anne Taylor palazzo pants
Weren't even holding in their stomachs!
I overheard the Queen of the Closet -
A vintage 1973 Halston Ultrasuede shirtdress
Cattily whispering
To the black Cache jacquard silk slacks,
"Daaaahhhling....Never mind this little skirmish
It happens every season
Those 2's and 4's just don't get out much"
I woke up at dawn, laying on the floor of my closet
With a melted Snickers bar in each hand.
