• Bug

    matchy matchy

    matchy matchy

    I’m standing at the sink doing dishes—my normal morning routine. I’m wearing yesterday’s tank top and my hand-me-down yoga pants that I slept in. My hair is piled on top of my head in a messy bun. I haven’t brushed it since yesterday. I haven’t brushed my teeth either. My apron is wet down the front from the water that splashes while I’m doing dishes. I’m sure I’m hunching over with my usual bad posture.

    I’m so glamourous.

    Bug is off in her room getting dressed. In my mind’s eye I can see her throwing shirts and pants over her shoulder as she looks for the perfect outfit to wear today. I can’t wait to see what she’s going to be today. Will it be seven different shades of red? Her rock-star t-shirt paired with pink socks and her red mary janes? Maybe she’ll be a flower again with her brown velcro runners for the dirt, her green pants for the stem and that old pink t-shirt from Walmart that I can’t stand as the flower. Her outfits always amuse.

    She comes out in a hand-me-down t-shirt from Annalie. It’s yellow and white striped just like my tank top. She has jeans on and they are ill-fitting. The pockets are inside out. She shuffles up to me with a frown.

    “I wanted to match you but my jeans don’t match your black pants,” she says sadly.

    “It’s okay. I’m not going to wear this today anyway,” I tell her. “These are my pajamas.” But she doesn’t listen. She’s off running to her room.

    She’s a fashionista on a mission. She comes back out wearing the black sweats I bought her for her ninja costume last Halloween and a big smile. Now we match she tells me, rubbing the fabric of her pants. We both have soft pants on.

    I look like a slob. We both do. But in her eyes we are wearing the perfect outfit.

    “Nobody will know which one is me and which one is you!” she exclaims and with a hop, she’s off.