Yesterday I got up early, slugged down a stiff cup of java and went into a housework tizzy. Ripping the sheets off the bed, I piled them into the giant rolling trash can I use as a hamper, plopped my trusty dog on top, and began the trek 18 floors down to the basement laundry room. My ill-considered outfit consisted of a do-rag chapeau, a wrinkled pink tee-shirt and some sweats. We arrived without incident, I loaded the washers and dashed for the elevator, hoping it would magically float directly to my floor uninterrupted, but noooo. My personal demons had a special surprise in store.
We got as far as the first floor and there was a little 'ding.' The doors opened, and there he was; a stunningly handsome vision of loveliness, a god just down from Olympus for the day. And there I was, in excruciating contrast; Cinderfella before his magic transformation, in his do-rag and sweats. And did I mention the rumpled pink tee-shirt?
I wanted to run. I wanted an escape hatch to open. He pushed 16 which was going to make for a long ride. I couldn't look at him so I stared at the buttons, wishing there was a Willy Wonka button that would take us on a wild ride up, over, down and around, and he and I would end up trapped and naked in a heap with the Pomeranian and the trash can...
No such luck. My mind was racing. I remembered those childhood wishes for superpowers, and thought how great it would be to have the power of invisibility at my fingertips for just such occasions, or even better, a fairy godfather to go 'poof' with her wand and transform the tee-shirt into a sparkling ballgown, my do-rag into a french twist, all reflecting my true inner beauty. Until that magic day, I have vowed to get dressed to do laundry, just in case my prince shows up with a glass slipper.
