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The Preacher has it so easy getting dressed on Sunday mornings.

Being Baptist

(the old-fashioned,

What-in-the-world-is-lent,

and traditional Sundays-are-for-dressing-up kind),

he wears dress pants, a collared, button-down shirt, jacket and tie.

And dress shoes.

And dress socks.

Black. Dress socks.

Not ankle socks and not white socks (or striped socks)

and definitely not no socks.

For him, dressing for church is simple.

Because every week he asks the same question:

Which suit did I wear last week?

Translation: that’s the suit he doesn’t want to wear this week.

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Didn’t I tell you? Simple.

And it takes him all of five minutes.

While I get up a whole hour before he does

and spend too many minutes looking through the closet,

and searching through dresser drawers,

or the laundry basket piled with clean clothes still not folded,

for the right cami or tank top,

a full slip or half slip,

dark or light nylons (or grab the sunless tanning lotion?

But only if my toenails are painted and heels exfoliated!),

And the right shoes—black, neutral, colored or strappy?

Or maybe boots?

(What’s the weather like outside?)

And how tall are those pumps,

because I don’t want to stumble

while going up and down the steps

if it’s my turn to sing.

Then…

after choosing the right jewelry (gold, silver, beaded or bubbled?),

scarf (solid or print?),

belt (wide or narrow?)…

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Let’s see… did I forget anything?

…to go with either a dress and jacket or cardigan,

or a skirt with a top and jacket,

or a skirt with a top and cardigan—

plus the decision to color-match, go monochromatic, or try a bold contrast.

And of course, which style matches the weather or my mood?

Knee-length, midi or maxi,

country, classy, boho, preppy, comfy, lacey, mod…

(Whew! Girls have it so tough!)

Wait! Is it birthday Sunday?

Cuz if it is, we’re eating pizza for lunch.

On benches.

And just in case you’ve never tried plopping yourself

(ladylike, that is)

on a continuous row of wooden benches in a skirt,

be forewarned—

pencil skirts don’t work with benches.

So it’s back to the closet I go…

Of course, once that’s settled,

there’s hair to fix—

up, down, curled or straight?

Am I done yet…?

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Imagine, a hundred years ago, two hundred years ago,

it was worse!

Think bustles and corsets and crinolines.

Those vintage shapers, and stiff, hooped slips that made long skirts all poufy.

The same skirts that hid monstrous hips and thunder thighs.

Those were the days.

And they wonder why we’re always late.

Like I said, guys have it so easy.

 

 

But I have to admit, their wardrobes are pre-tty-bor-ing.

That’s why I’d rather be a girl.

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