Ode to the Chairdrobe.

If there’s one thing I’ve come to realize about this blog, is that it’s basically an elaborate list detailing all the intimate ways I’m a hot mess of a homo sapiens sapiens. Darwinism.

With that being said, let me tell you, dear reader, that my bedroom is essentially a closet with a bed plopped in the middle. I don’t mean that in the endearing way microscopic New York bedrooms are often described; my room is actually quite large. And it would be more spacious still were it not that 7/8ths of it are occupied by clothing and shoes that have overflowed my wardrobes. You hear that? Wardrobe-sz. As in more than one. To hold my shit. Which they have become incapable of. 

As a result, a collection of t-shirts and pants, purses and sneakers, dresses and heels, have found semi-permanent homes in the chairs of my apartment. Where do I sit, you ask? On the floor. It’s comfortable there. 

Because I would rather my clothing and accessories take up residence in my furniture than my ass—the reason being I do everything not on time, including waking up in the morning for work. Can you blame a girl? This city be hard, and this chica be tired. But that also means mornings are a dizzying rush of trying to remember not to bolt out the house without pants. I have no time to search the depths of my closet for an outfit, let alone de-wrinkle it. 

Thus we arrive to the beauty of the chairdrobe: there’s always something to be worn in it, and chances are it’s in plain sight. Not to mention, the very nature of the chairdrobe suggests the dumping of clothing that is some kind of invincible blend of cotton and polyster/spandex/rayon, so it’s likely whatever you pull out will be primed and ready to go. It’s a win-win: you get more closet space, quicker prep time, and a cute outfit to boot.

Well, maybe not totally win-win. It’s more like a win-win-lose. If you have a chairdrobe, you probably have a floordrobe as well. Which means that while you may look hot and ready to roll, it’s a safe bet you have five bags blocking your door at all time, and can’t actually leave your apartment. 

My role model, Batman. He has the ultimate chairdrobe outfit, in that it’s all black and made of unbendable armor. Aka, no wrinkles.

Polyblend Zara blazer, polyblend BDG t-shirt, polyblend Uniqlo jeans, polyblend hair. Probably. I buy cheap hair products with ingredients lists too long to read.

Batman, I just want to be you. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.






Please. I fantasize about Wayne Manor: Imagine all the chairs, imagine all the possibilities. 

I have the cape with the extendable wings and everything.

I’m ready for this, Batman. I’ve even been practicing saying, “WHERE IS SHE?” in a way that that has probably scarred my esophagus permanently. Also, this is the last time I smile for the rest of my life, I promise. 

I can do it. Totally. In fact, I’m even looking forward to wearing nothing but all black all the time, because I can eat pasta and meat sauce without fear. Laundry time cut in half and heavy investments in Febreeze. I’m on it.

And that's about it. So remember, guys:

It is.