I’ve taken to not getting dressed during the day. It’s not because I'm depressed. I haven’t forgotten to do my laundry. The truth is, all I really own are office clothes or slutty going out clothes. But it feels overzealous to don a blouse and a pencil skirt to walk three feet from my bed to my armchair, and as a general rule, I don’t wear a camisole without the expectation of getting laid. So usually I just wear whatever I happened to fall asleep in. If I’m feeling ambitious or leaving my building, I’ll put on pants.
I needed to run an errand the other day so I pulled on jeans and threw on a coat, but then it was hotter than I expected so I took off my jacket and had to carry it (don’t you hate that?). I couldn’t figure out why I was getting all these looks from people. “Oh god, is it that bad?” I thought, reaching up to touch my face. “Have I been indoors for so long that I’ve become one of those kids from The Others whose skin explodes in the sunlight? Have I developed some weird affectation from being home alone with two parakeets all day?"
Then I looked down and realized I was wearing my special nightshirt that says I SLEEP AROUND in big letters across the chest. No wonder Emilio from the deli was friendlier than usual.