ALERT: BRAIN ATTACK. I repeat: BRAIN. ATTACK.

So far, my month-long run as Nelson Mandela on the stage of Podiatry has had a strange effect on my psyche.  I feel that not only do I play a part but that at some moments, when working, Nelson begins to infiltrate my very self with the purposes of erasing vital parts of who I really am and casting me into a sad, garment-centric abyss. 

Podiatry is a hyper-concentrated otherworld in which the most valued activity is dressing oneself.  For 5-7 hours out of a day, my whole being is consumed by CLOTHING.  How does that look?  Fit?  Feel?  What flatters your skin? Your face?  Your small frame?  Your broad shoulders?  What's the best color?  Cut?  Size?  By hour 2 on the job, I begin to truly internalize the idea that the most important aspect of life is buying and wearing apparel. 

In these stupors, I forget the concept of love, happiness, fun, and meaning outside of the context of scarves, jeans, cut and sew tops, blouses, and knits.  I forget the moral principles by which I live and replace them for that time with the moral principles of Podiatry:

-People are theives.
-Put a belt with that.

Surrounded by mirrors, and thus provided with overwhelmingly frequent opportunities to regard myself, I am highly aware of my physical trappings.  Because when in Podiatry, the Golden Rule is to "dress others and yourself as Podiatry would like you to be dressed," my identity exists only in terms of flesh and cloth.

Life is bleak.

But soon, I'm released.  I clock out, walk into the night air, and survey the few iterations of "nature" that exist in the parking lot.  I look at the two trees and realize that they did not agonize for an hour over what to wear that day.  I stop into a neighborhood grocery store and take in the warm and welcome sights of my slovenly-dressed fellow citizens: no makeup here, a grotesque rip in pajama pants there, neglect for "socially acceptable" bra-wearing procedures over there.  I breathe a sigh of relief, pay for my cottage cheese, and jet home where I immediately tear off my work clothes and replace them with a stained t-shirt and soft black pants that someone once asked if I'd worn during my "obese days."

Life is bright.