It’s one thing to overcome the “cat lady” stereotype once you meet someone and they find out you have cats. But what if they can tell you have cats before they even meet you? A few years ago I was on an escalator with a girlfriend of mine when she pointed to the older woman ahead of us and said, “That’s going to be you.”
The woman’s back, from beret to corduroys, was covered in light grey fuzz. It wasn’t mohair. She had cat(s). It wasn’t a good look and I knew immediately this was a fate I had to avoid at all costs. It was then that I committed myself to waging an aggressive battle against an unrelenting opponent with never-ending ammunitions. Cat hair.
If you step into my closet, you may think the light has gone out. Not so. It’s just that like most Manhattanites my closet is filled with dark color clothing – serving to give my opponent an added advantage. (As a side note, I’m convinced this dark attire is less a function of looking cool and more about concealing the city grime).
On any given morning you’re likely find me armed with a vacuum in one hand and a sticky roller in the other. I feel terrible about the environmental implications; I purchase those plastic rollers in bulk and have one in every room as well as at the office, and sometimes even in my handbag. My cats are subjected to vigorous brushings – sometimes against their will (it’s not pretty). I’ve even been known to pop into a FedEx to use their sticky label sleeves like a mitt to de-fur en route to a client meeting.
I wear my cat-hair-free black clothing like a badge of honor. The memory of the escalator-cat-lady keeps me strong in my never-ending battle. If you passed me on the street you would never know. Even my dry-cleaner was surprised to learn I have cat(s).
As for the furniture and men – well, that’s another blog posting all together.