Monday morning, I change my outfit four times.
"You're spiraling again," Riley observes from her bed. She's studying for an anatomy exam, flashcards spread around her like a paper fortress. The cards have detailed diagrams of muscles and bones, all labeled in her neat handwriting with different colored pens. She's already highlighted half her textbook, organized by system: cardiovascular in yellow, nervous in blue, skeletal in green. Her dedication to organization is almost mocking given my current state of chaos.
"I'm not spiraling."
"You've tried on every shirt you own."
"I'm being thoughtful about professional presentation."
"For a research meeting. At three in the afternoon. That you've been obsessing about all weekend."
