SEAMS Madam?Nay, it is, I know not SEAMS.

 by Barbara Poelle

I had a book of my heart come out recently and I find myself doing exactly what I tell authors NOT to do: obsessing over the reviews. I am clicking madly about the sites and even going into the individual histories of the reviewers to see what else they commented on and how THAT book stood up to mine. I’ve been totally mental. My search engine just wheezed out, “I think I can I think I can”, and I am fairly certain I sprained my Google as my fingers have been Michael Flatley-ing all over the keyboard.  

Happily,  I would say about 97% of the reviews are better than I could have possibly hoped,  but there are around 3 percent that are spewing such an acidic cocktail of bile and vitriol that I have to wonder who crapped in their cornflakes? (My parents are coming to town to visit so my mom can admonish me for that one face to face). Now I realize, that maybe not everyone is going to like my client’s book, (buffoons, clearly) but that is what makes the world a lovely place (those are lies), that everyone has an individual opinion to offer (only mine is correct).  And mayhap this is going to sound a bit laughable coming from the chick who made the Whole Foods Security guy teary eyed (he so totally deserved it), but reading these 3%ers has helped me understand that perhaps a more beige approach can get the same job done as stomping around like a goliath bird eating spider. (OMG, not to get off the subject, but like the goliath bird eating spider, I totally need the ability to flick urticating hairs from my body at anything I perceive as a threat. Can you imagine? This Prada bag isn’t on sale? THREAT. This seat on the subway is taken? THREAT. This girl in the elevator with me has gorgeous naturally curly hair? THREAT. )

Anyway. So, as a personal exercise, I have decided to write a gentle letter of hope with regards to an event that I usually approach with the same mental stability as one would if instructed stand under a barrel full of centipedes as they are dumped on one’s head.  So without further adieu:  A gentle open letter to my winter clothes I just took brought out:

Dear Winter Clothes,

I know we haven’t seen each other for a while and I assume life has been both muffled and opaque thorough that zippy plastic stuff.  Now I know green linen pants and purple halter might try to tell you differently as they change places with you, but know that I never stopped thinking of you all summer long. That is why I am hoping that we can try and work together this fall season in order to zip, button, pleat, and smooth correctly. (I am talking you specifically grey stripped pants).

Here’s the thing, I have a brutally busy schedule over the next few weeks. We have a large agency party on the 15^th (you’re all invited by the way), then I am heading to South Carolina and then Boston and Berkeley, so I think it’s fairly apparent that I absolutely cannot even pencil in a shame spiral- I’m already booking those emotions for catastrophic temper tantrums in airports.

Also, I have a really fun new short haircut and I am going to be asking a lot from you, pumpkin colored sweater, and you green layered neckline shirt, because I am fairly certain that what DOESN’T match with a fun new haircut is straining seams and back fat.

So, here’s the deal.  I am going to slide you out of your plastic home and hang you up according to color and sleeve length and then you are going to talk amongst yourselves and decide what it is going to take to ensure that none of you will buckle, strain, pop, or wheeze as I pull you on in the coming weeks. (I am looking at you, fuzzy white turtleneck.)  

I am looking forward to spending the next several months together and I will do my best not to spend the time between 7:37-8:02 a.m. tearing you off of my body and roaring a stream of curse words so vile that it melts the frost on the windowsill and makes the baby in the apartment next door wail as if spotting an axe murderer under the pack and play.

All my best this beautiful fall season,

Barbara

p.s. All day today I am going to live my life as if I have the ability to launch urticating hairs from my body.

p.p.s. Did anyone laugh as hard at my title as I did?

Comments

[Paula Matter]

I admit I was waiting for you to pull an inky cloak out of its plastic home.

[Barbara Poelle]

PAULA!!! You rock. and....I TOTALLY HAVE AN INKY CLOAK BUT HOLLY ROOT WON'T LET ME WEAR IT IN PUBLIC!!!

[r. lewis]

If you come to The Berk, lady... well, you know.