IT'S ONE BIG FARCE, PEOPLE!

The fitting-room is Nelson's stage. Outside of Podiatry, I'm a mere pedestrian: generally makeup-less, roaming about clothed in whatever fabric can be comfortably draped over my body. But going to Podiatry means preparing myself either for a matinee or an evening performance. I get into costume. I apply my stage makeup. I am transformed. I enter the theater of consumerism when I clock in, and I step out into the lights of the fitting-room stage. Here is where I take on Nelson's personality. Who am I? What's my motivation? How do I...my real self...inform my stage persona? I will begin to answer these questions.

After a few weeks of working, I know who Nelson is. If you met him on his stage, you'd think that he were a spunky girl with a keen eye for fashion, ready and willing to dole out tips and ideas concerning any clothing quandary.

Reality: I don't know nothing 'bout no fashion Miss Scah-let. But because mine is the warm body that is letting you in and out of your little changing cage and taking your piles of unwanted, unfolded, crumpled and inside-out clothing after your try-on extravaganza, you think that I KNOW EVERYTHING. And I'm Nelson. I DO know everything. So when you ask, I have to respond. Hesitation is not an option. Even if I don't know, I simply make something up. And the bitterly funny thing is: EVERYONE BELIEVES ME.

Example: There was a woman, let's call her Miss Grizzly, who came out in a deep-yellow top with strange military epaulettes resting majestically on the shoulders. “What do you think?” she ventured. My heart raced: WHAT DOES NELSON THINK?! What would someone like Nelson think? I wasn't exactly on the ball that day, so I let something rather generic fly: “The color is really flattering on you. I personally cannot wear that color because of my skin tone, but it really complements yours!” Miss Grizzly stepped back and admired her goldenrod-self in the three paneled mirror. “I do love this color....Do you have anything else in it? Do you think it would go with an indigo skirt?” Indigo, indigo, I thought frantically, Is that purple? It's either blue-ish or purple-ish because it's in the rainbow song! Red, orange, yellow, green blue, indigo, violet.... Unable to determine the true identity of indigo, I just went with it. “Oh absolutely! That would look SO funky with indigo.” Miss Grizzly beamed and headed out to scour the store for every top in that dark yellow color, returning minutes later with arms full and full of praise for my decision making.

Another example: Middle-aged woman who we'll call Frau Schnitzel (why the German? Because I initially thought she was a German professor from the university I'm currently attending, and I stupidly greeted her with a “Gutentag!” as I let her into her room which, for the record, is NOT standard Podiatry procedure. I realized that her occupation is probably not German-related when my foreign greeting was met with a mildly annoyed look and a quick duck into the dressing room). She emerged from her room in a great-billowy midnight-blue sack, one breast covered by the built-in slip-dress, and the other breast (sheathed in a bra, thankfully) strangely liberated from its clothing confines.

“How is this supposed to be worn?” she asked desperately, trying to find a way to smash both of her lady lumps into this glowing ensemble. Dammit, my inner monologue began. I DON'T KNOW! But my outer character jumped into action. “Actually, you just have to....” I started, confidently, and proceeded to work my magic. Well, if you'll agree that working magic involves basically groping Frau Schnitzel in the process of pulling and disentangling and smoothing out the fabric of her dress, then I worked magic. It was a back-bending, topsy-turvy, hold-your-mouth-just-right kind of experience, and by the end, my hands knew well the intimate contours of her German stature, and somehow the dress took shape and she was all covered. She left the store with the dress and a sparkly belt to wear with it.

Example number three: Hortense. This lady was a strange contradiction. The conservatively dressed Hortense—long black skirt, solid-colored cardigan, and non-descript clog shoes—did not go for the predictable items such as, I dunno, shirts, pants, dresses, etc. Instead she filled her 5 by 5 room with an assortment of unique, experimental, un-Hortense-like garments, and then angrily emerged, demanding an explanation for each piece.

“I don't mean to sound stupid,” she said, turning the handle and stepping out in her clogged-feet, “but what is this?”

It looked to me as if it were a Halloween costume for someone going for the butterfly Ninja Turtle look. Instead, Nelson kicked in and said matter-of-factly, “Oh, it's a kind of spring, poncho piece. Just wear it with an off-white cami” (Podiatry-speak for camisole). “It's supposed to be billowy” like the sails of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria I wanted to add, but stopped myself. “It's really fun and playful.” I added for effect. Hortense did not buy this item, but she seemed satisfied with my response.

The thing is, I could go on and on with examples of Nelson's fashion smarts taking over for me in a bind. Where do I come up with this stuff? I'll explore that question in posts to come. But I'm off to Podiatry in about an hour, and I need to get in character: do my vocal warm-ups, don my Nelson garb, and plaster my face with stage makeup. My public awaits....