I begin every work day with the same routine. Repeatedly hit the clanging alarm, drag myself out of bed, stumble to the washroom, have a shower, stumble back to my room and then stand before my closet waiting for inspiration or divine intervention to hit me. Every morning I stand there with the knowledge that I have exactly 34.5 seconds to decide on what to wear and figure out if my choice of clothing is (a) washed (b) Out of the dryer (c) moderately unwrinkled (d) still fits me before I will start to fall behind on my schedule and inevitably be – late and running for the train.
When (note, no “ifs”) I’m terribly rich and moderately famous, I shall have a personal shopper and personal dresser. I shall then look as wonderfully turned out as some of the uber glamour chicks I see each day on the subway. At 7 am, when even the sun is still struggling to shine, these freaks of nature are well dressed, perfectly matched, prudently manicured, carefully coiffed and primed and pruned so that they look like they’ve just stepped out of a runway catalogue and onto the platform. They never run for trains (primarily coz they’d break their leg running in 4 inch overpriced shoes) and they never smudge their lip gloss as they serenely sip coffee and flip the pages of their newspaper. I also suspect that there’s actually no coffee in their overpriced flask – it just happened to match with the day’s ensemble.
Regardless, one day I will look just like them – in larger size clothing of course. And then even though I don’t need to take the subway to work anymore I will get onto a 7 am train looking just as coiffed and well groomed as they do, ‘cept I’ll be sipping on actual coffee of course!