When I’m in a dressing room and they turn off the sassy overhead music, I am forced to confront the raw soundtrack of my actual reality and face the fact that I’m thrashing about in a tiny room like King Kong, knocking things over, staggering around with sweaters stuck on my head, hurling hangers to the floor like tiny airplanes off the Empire State Building.
Every once in a while a dubious gift slides over from my neighbor’s stall: giant dust bunny, half a hanger, someone else’s bra. My foot—the one with the sock on—is stuck in my purse, which is how I have managed to stub my toe on car keys and draw blood. A plastic price tag dangles pitifully from my teeth. And worst of all, I’m still grooving even though the music is gone, still doing the mom dance, trying desperately to hang on to cool as the salesgirl clickety clacks toward my door. Knock knock knock knock knock!
“Is everything OK in there? Can I get you anything?”
“Do you have these pants in a size valium?
“You mean medium?”
My name is Nasreen. I write micro essays, one-liners, and other small things. Most of them were funny at some point, at least to me.