RWA. One small rectangular suitcase. So many, many pairs of shoes. And handbags.

What's an accessory 'ho to do?

Well, one thing's for sure: I do not make charts or graphs or spreadsheets, color-coded or not. Charts and graphs and spreadsheets are sort of against my religion. They take all the fun out of things!

So, picture me shuffling into the bedroom with its bright purple accent wall, two hat-racks loaded with purses of every size, shape and color, and more purses hanging on the backs of the double doors. We won't mention the three other shelves of purses in the closet, because that might start to get embarrassing.

I enter the bedroom and then veer right, stopping at the two large bookcases, each loaded with ten shelves which are, in turn, each loaded with four pairs of shoes. By my calculations this means that there are eighty pairs of shoes alone just on these shelves. We won't mention the whole rack in the closet, or the large bin in the closet, because that, again, might get embarrassing.

Anyway.

So the little kid in me brightens as if I've just entered a candy store with a hundred dollars to spend.

The responsible adult in me (yeah, there is one, believe it or not) cringes at the array. The responsible adult growls that I should get a life, that I could probably own a small piece of real estate for all the $ I've spent on shoes and bags. I could also be sponsoring starving families somewhere instead of indulging in this crass consumption.

But back to the little kid, who wants to take every shoe on the shelves to RWA, along with a bag that somehow coordinates. And then maybe a scarf or necklace to tie it all together?

Clearly, this little kid needs to be disciplined.

Fortunately, given my mania for accessories, I'm not that creative when it comes to the actual meat and potatoes of getting dressed. I own a lot of solids in pants/skirts/tops. So I start there: generally with something black. Eventually other solid things get pulled out and tossed on the bed, possibly on top of the cat.

Then I get to move on to my favorite part, the dessert of dressing for a conference, so to speak. With difficulty, I try to choose no more than five or six pairs of shoes. It's tough because the evening ones are so much fun: the ones with blinding sparkles, say, or multi-colored discs attached to the toes. The ones with the heels that looks like lightening bolts. The ones that have the dangling silver charms. 

Now it's bag time! Can I take the bag that looks like a '56 chevy, complete with tail-lights and metal door-handle? The one in the shape of a watering can? The teapot? The high-heeled shoe that zips down the center, given to me by my friend Joan? Or maybe the bag shaped like the nail-polish bottle or that other cool one that looks like a rotary-dial phone . . .

Can you see the dilemma? Okay, I stop way short of asking you to feel my pain.

So after all of this stuff is assembled, I see if it will mash into the one suitcase. If it won't all fit, then I have to start discarding things. Of course, this causes great anguish.

Finally, the cat jumps out of the suitcase where it's gotten buried again. It glares at me. It shames me. I mean, the cat walks around every day for all of its nine lives only getting to wear ONE cat suit. And no cool shoes or bags!

I try to gain a little perspective from this. I put away at least twenty selections that are completely unnecessary. I throw in a couple of pairs of Spanx, thinking resentfully that the cat doesn't need those either . . .

I zip the suitcase. The cat saunters off and scratching sounds coming from the general direction of her litter box communicate what she really thinks of me and other humans who get to change their human suits every day for fun and profit. 

And there's a smug look on her face when she emerges: no matter what I end up packing for RWA, I will never have a tail to flounce, like hers.

Happy Thursday from me and the cat, Karen