I am officially getting off my ass and going to the dry cleaners tomorrow

I had a hearing in court this morning...not an oddity considering my profession.  And I've known about it for weeks now, so really not a big surprise.  So, after my various morning rituals of showering, letting the dog out and the cats in, eating my super-fiber loaded and allegedly "slimming" cereal, doing the makeup, watching Ann Curry, and fighting the hair I go to my closet to find a suit.

Now, I have to clarify something here. I am a lawyer, but I am not one of these L.A. Law/Ally McBeal/Law & Order lawyers most of America sees every night always clad in some dark, 3 piece power suit.  My firm is pretty laid back (thank God) and my daily attire is more along the line of a pair of cords with some boots and a long sleeve t-shirt from Old Navy.  Or maybe a nice sweater with some semi-casual pants.  I own and wear virtually nothing that requires ironing, because, well...because we girls didn't fight for emancipation and voting rights just to have to iron?!?!  Thus, the need for pulling a suit out of my closet is not like a daily or even monthly thing for me.  So, this morning I go to get one and just stand staring into the void of my closet.  I can't find one...I have this hearing in the federal court house in like 35 minutes. Hmmmm.

Now, I do own suits. Several, in fact. And some very snazzy ones, if I do say so myself--I am particularly fond of my red one and my pink one. But, the problem is that none of them are clean and in my closet where I am hunting for them. They appear to all by in my "dry cleaning pile."  And by pile, I really mean that huge, black mesh laundry bag taking up a sizable corner in my bedroom behind the door where I put all of my "to be dry cleaned" stuff.  

The problem is, I have some insane mental block/laziness streak about actually taking the "to be dry cleaned" stuff to the actual dry cleaners. I have no idea why. the dry cleaners have never done anything to me and the 2 or 3 times I've been there in the past, oh, 3 years, they were always very nice and helpful. I obediently go to my dentist every 6 months. I dutifully go to my eye doctor every year.  I even voluntarily make the wonderful "feet in stirrups" trip to have my hoo-ha examined every year as scheduled.  But the dry cleaner...not so much.  

I'm not even sure what all is in that big, black mesh bag. And since it is conveniently kept in the corner behind my bedroom door I don't really see it everyday.  I imagine if I actually broke down and took it to the cleaners I'd probably double my wardrobe, easy.  But...I just haven't. 

So, I look deep into the far back reaches of my closet--you know, where I have that cute little black and lace number I wore to an evening wedding in St. Louis like 6 years ago and...oh! So that's where my leather pants are!  Yah..that far back.  And, miracle of miracle I find a suit! It's a pantsuit, but we gals are now allowed to wear those in court (viva la resistance!) despite the prior arcane "rules" of court from several years ago keeping us all in skirts.  The angels of wardrobe mercy have saved me! So, I pull it out and then just stare...

Matt walks in and sees me having a staring contest of wills with the suit and asks if there is something wrong with it. "Um...no," I reply...still holding it at arms length and staring at it as if I had just discovered a severed head in the fridge.  He waits...asks again, "is everything ok?"  I sigh...there is nothing wrong with the suit. It is actually a very nice, dark green pantsuit with a detailed jacket and these awesome carved buttons.  I confess, "Um...I bought this suit back when I was still in law school for job interviews."  He looks at me vacantly, in only that way a man trying to understand his woman can look.  I continue, "Um, like back in 1998..."  Again, more of the vacant man stare...  I break down, fling the suit onto the bed and announce, "Dear God, I hope it still fits!" At this point Matt, very wisely, backs out of the room and disappears somewhere into the house.

So, while running through my brain to remember where I keep my ultra-super-control-top hosiery I try on the pants...and...they fit! Sweet Jesus they fit!!!  I think I actually squealed with joy!  Matt (hearing the squeal of joy and recognizing a "safe zone") returns to the door way and, very wisely, says "Honey, it still fits you perfectly!" (good man...he will get so lucky tonight just for this one comment)

So, I go on about my business and finish getting dressed and rush off to the halls of justice grinning with the madness only possessed by a woman who has discovered she can still wear the same pants she wore in 1998...before she was THIRTY.

Alas, my joy was short lived.  Very soon I realized that while the pants fit...um, the fashion styles have changed drastically since 1998.  More specifically, in 1998 apparently the waist of suit pants was, oh, intended to sit directly under my boobs.  In my morning glee I hadn't realized that the top of these miracle pants came up to within 2 inches of my bra...seriously, if I had pulled them up a little more the bra may not have even been necessary.  But with the jacket over them, you couldn't tell so I got over it, because as long as I kept the jacket on and buttoned no one would realize I really looked like this:

So, I go to court and the hearing goes fine and no one is the wiser that I am secretly impersonating Bill Cosby (but without the bizarrely patterned yet incredibly muted sweater). By 10:00 I'm back at the office and ready to finish out the day.  Then I realize a side effect of the pants (other than making me feel like I was wearing a back up bra).  Ok, when I am not out fighting wrongs in the halls of justice, I spend alot of my time sitting in front of a computer...like now.  Except, unlike now, from 10:00 til 6:30 today I was not wearing my uber-comfortable velour lounging pants that very healthily sit right below the belly button.  No, no, no. I was wearing pants that could double as nipple-protectors if I really needed them to.  So, within an hour or so of sitting in the pants, I pretty much felt like I was wearing this:

And not in a sexy-secretary way, but more in an iron lung way.  Yah. Now, I know you will all be shocked to know that my rock-hard abs (giggle...giggle--I couldn't even type that with a straight face) found this irritating, but they did.  Even legal super models like me have our limits.  I felt like that relative at Thanksgiving who no one actually invites but he shows up every year anyway and eats like 3 times their weight in food and then lumbers to the couch to unbutton their pants just so they can breathe...except I was at work, in a law firm, dealing with people...and I thought it might be a little rude to prop my feet up, undo the side zip and button on the pants and expose myself to various attorneys and clients. So, I did what women through history have done in the name of fashion, decency and the insanely unfair male dominated media world of fashion--I sucked it up...literally. And I could not freaking wait to get home tonight.

I walk in from work, tell Matt "hi" and before he can hug me I brush by him, already undoing the like 10 inch long zipper from hell, and tell him to hold on because I have to get out of these pants now! Matt grins as if I have answered a dying boy's birthday wish and follows me quickly into the bedroom.  "Um, no honey...I have to get these off, breathe and restore circulation to my internal organs."  

So, tomorrow...To Do List Number 1: Dry cleaners.  If I do nothing else all day, I am going to the cleaner's  and reclaiming a chunk of my wardrobe that existed post 1998.