Because living in a mansion with a state-of-the-art security system and four police officers armed to the teeth apparently wasn’t enough. I faithfully promised to set up a perimeter defense in my room as well as the hallway with the gear. Which, when I opened the bags, looked like it would take the entire weekend to set up. I had two backpacks, one full of dirty PEA uniforms, the other an overnighter. Dumping it all in the hallway, I went upstairs. It wouldn’t take long to get ready, but what in the Sam Hill was I going to wear? Hours later a heaping pile of discarded separates lay on the bed. I moved onto dresses. Next on the pile was a pink Rickie Freeman, too frock-ish. Then an über-conservative black hit the pile, followed by a deep-V short red Jovani dress. Way too sexy. I wriggled out of a beige Calvin Klein sheath dress that needed to be shortened. Which I’d told myself to do about a thousand times and hadn’t. “Aigh!” Clothes lock: that horrible paralyzing moment when you’ve tried on everything you own and it all sucks.
