I’ve set myself one task for today. One idiotically simple task. I told myself the entire day would be a success if only I got it done. And why wouldn’t I? It’s relatively easy. It requires no real effort, thought, or concentration. It’ll bring in money. It’ll clear space in our house. It’ll relieve me of a psychic burden of no small significance. For it’s a thing I’ve put off for awhile, now. Ten years, to be precise.
No wonder, then, that here I sit, writing instead of doing it.
What is this Herculean task, you wonder, that she avoids so strenuously? Has she been asked to rewrite the tax code? Master symbolic logic? Solve the crisis in the Middle East?
No, just to sell her wedding dress.
And nobody’s asking me to do it! I want to! This may sound harsh, but my last marriage was a farce–a well-intentioned one, true, but a farce nonetheless. Of unnecessarily long duration, I might add. I was over it before either of us said “I do.” I do not, then, possess a shred of sentimental attachment for it or any material item representing its tenure.
Why, then, can I not get this thing done? Pure, unfettered laziness, mostly. And other neuroses: The dress is sealed in a box, like some mummified ancestor. I’ve never liked corpses, even of the sartorial variety. I’ve always been more of the “let the dead stay buried” type. Plus, what if I cut the dress accidentally while opening the carton–as I will–with a large paring knife? Vera Wang could get Freddy Kreugered before she’s even out of the box. It’s likely, if I’m involved.
Then there’s the measuring, the descriptions, the photographing. The latter, especially! What a pain! First of all, I don’t have the right hanger. And as far as backdrops go, I’m even more screwed. Anywhere I hang my five-thousand dollar frock there’ll be an antedeluvian appliance hulking in the frame behind it. Gaffers and Sattler dishwasher with your ballgown? That should up the bids.
Then there are the lighting issues. Today, for example. It’s like “Wuthering Heights” out there. I can’t take pictures on a day like this. That’s why I’m on the couch with a cup of Earl Grey instead of crossing this vintage frock off of my interminable to-do list.
The fact is it may never happen. And if it doesn’t, why, I’m nothing if not resourceful. The box the dress is sealed in, for example, could make a very suitable coffee table. We’ve needed one in the guest bedroom forever. Drape a little cloth over it and you’ll never know the difference.
Or I may, but I’ll be too busy resting my feet on it to care.