Clothing

Very trying morning. For barest fraction of second, far corner of shower curtain flops itself out on wrong side tub. Bathroom floor suffers deluge totally out of proportion to amount of time shower curtain spent awry and contradicts laws of water flow. Jenny tries to help by licking up water but her method very slow. Use three large bath towels to soak up mess. Become very grumpy. Open closet door. Survey of clothes does not improve mood. Put on dark pants, light blue t shirt, and dark sweater with wide neck. Finish off outfit with gray courdouroy jacket. Look into mirror. See with horror that blue t-shirt looks white under sweater and that appear Clerical. Fling off top elements. Find shirt. Button up. Shirt feels a bit tight under arms but will most likely work as long as don't need to reach for anything up high. (In retrospect, see that attitude delusionally optimistic -- if am honest with self, a not infrequent state and probably indicating mental illness to come.) Glance in mirror reveals buttons looking as though they are going to pop off chest portion of shirt, which is not at all flattering (note: must go to Paragon immedately so that excuse of not having goggles no longer conveninetly prevents from going to pool.) Settle on Army green pants, sweater, same gray coat, and, as it is raining, duck boots. Look into mirror with severe trepidation. See that all need to complete outfit is jaunty tweed cap and shotgun -- would look exactly as though getting ready to shoot pheasant. Stifle scream. From bed, Dave asks, What are you stomping around for? Do not care for his choice of words -- makes feel am large animal -- tell him that Hate all clothes. After too long pause he says, I think you look fine. Both of us know that this is not strictly the truth, but as am late, say, Tally Ho in English accent, which am immediately mortified by.