Margaret Atwood
Oh no. Not this again. It's the clothing dream. I've
been having this for fifty years. Aisle after aisle,
closetful after closetful, metal rack after metal rack
of clothing, stretching into the distance under the
glare of fluorescent tubing -- as gaudy and ornate and
confusing, and finally as glum and oppressive, as the
dreams of a long-time opium smoker. Why am I compelled
to riffle through these outfits, tangling up the
hangers, tripping on the ribbons, snagging myself on a
hook or button while feathers and sequins and fake
pearls drop to the floor like ants from a burning
tree? What is the occasion? Who do I need to impress?
---
There's a smell of stale underarms. Everything's been
worn before. Nothing fits. Too small, too big, too
magenta. These flounces, hoops, ruffles, wired
collars, cut-velvet capes -- none of these disguises
are mine. How old am I in this dream? Do I have tits?
Whose life am I living? Whose life am I failing to
live? ---
