I have clothing—way more than I could ever need. Judging by the size of my aunt's closet, I'm thinking it has something to do with that second x-chromosome. I maintain a makeshift closet in the unfinished part of the basement. It's somewhat not cozy in the unfinished part of the basement. You'd think I'd learn to lay out my clothing the night before instead of contemplating my sweater selection in the altogether while hopping from foot-to-foot, cursing the cold concrete.
But, no...
I had much frustration with clothing racks there in the beginning. I found my naiveté in the subject to be debilitating, and could often be found with a vacant expression, chewing my thumbnail and swaying on my feet whilst in front of a particularly large display of organizational whatnots. I can't recall the precise number of employees who approached me, asking if I needed assistance. I'd nod dumbly, and remain mute, unfocused. They all wandered away at length, being unskilled in the art of taciturn communication. Louts.
Eventually, I returned home and remembered the internet. I found this a much more pleasant experience, as I could drool unchecked without the housewares department announcing that they needed cleanup in aisle three...again. I also tired of them announcing, "Would the customer in aisle three please go home and shower? It's been four days. You're detracting customers." Yes, the internet was better all-around.
In the end, it came down to the choice between the one-hundred-dollar looker and the four-dollar flirt. Deciding they must be of comparable quality, I chose the flirt. And, boy do I feel bad for those who paid $100 for their wobbly apparatus. I was relieved that I only paid $4 for mine. I soon reclaimed my sad post on the northern side of aisle three and mourned my ineptitude.
The light grew dim on my happiness. I floundered, to put it mildly. My mother was beside herself with worry, and I sought to mask my dismal outlook with false niceties. I don't know how she was able to see through my attempts, as I was quite cheery and jovial as I'd offer a pleasant comment such as, "Your hair is really coming back gray." She, being the oversensitive sort, took it as me being foul-tempered. She called for a little fatherly intervention, and importuned him until his temperament matched the likes of mine.
So there were two cranky Norwegians and a do-gooder in the mix. Muttered obscenities did occur, brooding looks did arise, and I was left with ten feet of conduit suspended sturdily from the rafters. It's glorious, more beautiful than I ever thought raw materials could be. The Norwegians couldn't have been happier with the situation, and my mother asked in the stillness of a moment days later, "Now. Do you really think my hair is coming back gray?" I waxed poetic on her desaturated locks and she began musing on how to earn the next compliment.
This still doesn't solve my morning time chill, however, as that would take a serious jump in the logic rating...a vault which I am, as of yet, unprepared to make.
