Eleven Minutes I'm Not Getting Back

Here is what happened this morning: I opened my closet at approximately seven forty-five, stood there, and conducted what I can only describe as a formal review. The gray blouse was in question. The jeans were never really in question, the jeans are never in question, but I held the gray blouse up and stared at it like it owed me an explanation. Eleven minutes later I put on the gray blouse.

I want to be clear that nothing is different about the gray blouse today. It is the same blouse it has always been. I think what actually happened is that I needed eleven minutes to confirm that the thing I already knew was correct was, in fact, correct. Which is a very human thing to do, but it is also not an efficient use of a Tuesday morning.

The boots passed inspection.

back-check. inconclusive.

The back of the outfit passed inspection after a slightly athletic crouching check in the mirror that I think Gerald witnessed from the windowsill.

boot check. boots are fine. I've decided.

The necklace was always a yes. The necklace is a standing yes. I don't know why I even look at it anymore, but I do, every morning, like I might one day decide it doesn't go with something.

Anyway. The apartment has that specific Easter-week quiet to it, half the city seems to have gone somewhere, and the morning felt slower than usual, which is maybe why I let myself stand in front of the closet for eleven minutes instead of six. I'll take it. The gray blouse and I are fine. We're back.