The Warmup Suit Coup

How downsizing led to a wardrobe rebellion.

Photo by Ryan McGuire via Pixabay

I should have seen the warning signs among the top shelf leisurewear. Should have seen their rumpled looks of despair.

I should have heard the whispers of discontent among the dry cleaning bags.

But I missed them all.

On the day of the rebellion, I stood paralyzed in shocked surprise when a dark stain breached the front with a battalion of blotches, as my sweatsuit shrank in horror.

I still remember the cries of the tiny grimy blotches.

“Slime her! Bind her!”

They almost captured me with a ring around the collar. But I escaped when they were overcome by the stench of my sweatsuit.

While they lay limp in unconsciousness, I rounded them up, hauled them downstairs and tossed them into the washing machine. They pounded the door, pleading for release, while I waterboarded them and pelted them with Tide PODS.

Word got out among the garment factions of my tactics, and they evacuated to Laundry Hill where they huddled en masse, waiting for an opportunity to escape with the socks.

Amid the lull of battle, I decoded plans of their surrender, intercepted by my thoughts, then lowered the wash-cycle threat level from agitated to gentle.

With a ceasefire imminent, I retreated to the shower for a meeting with the executive body and operation head.

The scent of unrest was strong as I stepped into a barrage of water projectiles that pummelled my skin. Backed into the corner, I sensed an unfamiliar presence behind me and whirled around.

What was that squatting on the side of the tub? — That white quadrilateral blob? — Was it some kind of listening device? I seized the slippery blob with two hands to prevent it from evading capture.

“Name, rank and serial number!” I demanded.

“Corporal Dove, Unscented Division.”

“Who sent you?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Tell me! Who sent you!” I squeezed until my fingers left indentations in its hide.

“Stop! Just stop! I’ll tell you everything I know.”

I released my grip.

“It was your husband and son.”

“Please, God. No!”

My husband and son had dispatched soap infidels to purge the gritty skin infantry that insulated me. Oh, the inhumanity. What was I to do? Nothing, but accept my fate and succumb to the suds.

After delousing in the shower, I was released and sent to the underwear drawer for a debriefing.

“Get dressed and get back to work!” My bras snapped at me.

“Work? What work? I lost my job because of corporate downsizing.”

“You should have been in better shape.”

“It wasn’t me! It was the economy that was in lousy shape.”

“Just get on with your day!”

I checked the calendar in the office, still stuck on the date I lost my job. Another attempt at psychological warfare.

This time, you will not prevail!

I ignored the taunts of the calendar and got back on task, working for the American taxpayer while counting the days until my unemployment ran out.

I may have lost a job, but I gained respect from my wardrobe that day. After agreeing to daily meetings in the shower with the executive body and operation head, the anger that tarnished our relationship washed away; once again we were able to cohabitate in peace.

My bras no longer snap at me.

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Dysfunctional wife, mother, loser of stuff. Making sense out of chaos.

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