|Thrifted Gap cardigan; thrifted J Crew tee; Gap Outlet cargos; thifted Marc Fisher loafers; thrifted Coach satchel; thrifted Michael Kors rose gold watch; Forever 21 and Charming Charlie bracelets|
Today I've given a lot of thought to the phrase "waking up on the wrong side of the bed." It's a really strange expression. How can any one side of the bed be deemed somehow worse than the other? It's all the same bed. There are no Bed Police. Yes there we are, on the wrong side, and in a terrible mood for no good reason.
This morning was one of those mornings. First of all, my alarm had the audacity to go off while I was in the middle of a perfectly delicious dream featuring Gerald Butler and my super secret husband Jeffrey Dean Morgan. I fell out of bed and looked in the mirror, only to see through my blurry vision what looked like a hungover cast member of Celebrity Rehab. Specifically, one of the ones that rolls around the house drunk on Wild Turkey and picks fights with everyone and hasn't brushed their teeth since they became famous in the first place.
Then I took a shower, slapped on some make-up, blew out my hair and tried to figure out what to wear. On days when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, I am utterly and absolutely convinced there is Nothing To Wear. I capitalize this statement so as to underline the seriousness of the situation. I have a closet full of clothes, yet nothing is right. It's a mystery akin to Charlie Sheen's success and the taste difference between Diet Dr. Pepper and Dr. Pepper Ten. I tried on a tee and cardigan with three different pairs of jeans. Then I put on a belt. Then I took off the belt and changed to a different cardigan. Then I changed the jeans for skinny cargos. Then I ditched all pieces for a dress and tights. Then I sat on the floor of my closet and seriously considered becoming a nudist.
In the end, I reverted back to my original tee, cardigan and skinny cargos. I would say that this is quite a dysfunctional start to a day. And it's all my bed's fault.