Out of the closet

I woke up this morning to find a strange woman in my closet. She was rifling through my t-shirts. It takes me a second to “come to,” if you will, in the morning, so I didn’t come up swinging, but rather lay in bed watching her. She was pretty, of medium height, medium build, with beautiful but messy red hair, red sox pajama bottoms and a led zeppelin t-shirt. She looked over and smiled at me, warm brown eyes behind green framed glasses. Something about this was vaguely familiar, only not in that “oh, I’m looking at myself as a girl” way, since this woman did not resemble me in the least. It was more in a “I spend a lot of time in there working out what I’m going to wear, too” kind of way.

I love my closet. It isn’t big, though it meets the definition of walk-in. In a house where I don’t have much, or any, really, ME SPACE, my closet is somewhat of a refuge to me. I even meditate in my closet in the mornings, running the extension cord for the CD player under the door separating closet from bedroom so that I can be at one with my breathing and Jon Kabat Zinn’s voice in the mornings without arousing any suspicion or spectators. I am a little anal about things in my closet. Boots go together; scarves (of which I have way more than shoes) are all hanging on a nifty rack together, hats in a box, memories in a box, bags in a box, etc. I like order, and as Queen of Closet Kingdom, I can exercise a very demanding standard for all things organized which makes me an extremely happy regent.

To find this interloper, then, in my sacred municipality, was a bit unnerving. I didn’t remember issuing invitations, nor did I remember being approached about hosting an open house or even a viewing. This visitor had simply walked across the border and straight into the command post of my palace.

She selected a long sleeve white t-shirt and then turned her attention to my shoes. I don’t have a lot of shoes (at least not a lot by female standards – though my son has repeatedly asked me why my gender needs so many when all one truly needs is three pair; one for sports, one for fancy and one for everything else) so it didn’t take her long to pick up my cowboy boots.

She took another broad look around, and, seeming satisfied with her selections exited the room and walked past me in bed. “Good Morning Mom!” It was my daughter, who, suddenly, wears my size in, well, just about everything, and is clearly a fan of eminent domain. Me thinks Princess Pillage and Plunder is about to give the Queen a run for her money.