I wear dark clothing. I always have and I probably always will. Almost everything I own is a dark color. Black, dark gray, charcoal, navy, brown, khaki. My closet is a mass of shadows.
Until a few days ago, I had a light. One bulb and a pull chain. Not exactly the most modern arrangement, but it beat out total darkness. I’m pretty sure the light is the original which came with the house.
A few days ago, the chain started to refuse to spring back up into the light so you can pull it again next time. I messed with it, but messing didn’t help. It finally stopped working entirely.
Probably 75% of my clothing is black or a dark enough to pass for black. A lot of my shirts — summer and winter — are black. Some of them are printed with cool sayings — like “Serendipity.” Which would help me find stuff — if everything was not all scrunched together.
I got rid of all my work clothing since I don’t work anymore, but somehow, the closet is still as full as it was before. Partly, this problem is because Garry puts everything on a hanger. Including my nightgowns. Tee-shirts. Yoga pants.
I have explained I don’t need my nightwear on hangers, but there is no way on earth he would even look in my chest of drawers. I don’t blame him. If I can’t find anything in the closet, can you imagine the drawers? It’s the dark pit of drawers.
Owen says he’s going to replace the light. It’s one of those standard $5 fixtures you can buy in any hardware store.
He will fix it, but it isn’t going to help much. Before the light went out, I couldn’t find anything. More light will merely increase my frustration.