I woke up with that weird stomach feeling. The kind where you know something dreadful is in store for you but your memory hasn’t quite gotten up to speed. Five seconds later, I remembered that in a few short hours, I’d be experiencing my first sitting. I was too scared to even gasp or groan. Maybe I’d paralyzed myself in my sleep? Unfortunately, paralysis probably fit into the “you’re not allowed to get sick” category and wouldn’t fly as an excuse for a no-show.

B-Day—the day I’d undoubtedly pick my entire scalp bald—had arrived. To think that I had to do this with Evan, and nobody else, made it that much worse. While I’d not heard a peep from Matthew since his dramatic exit, I still prayed for his sister-in-law nightly and had my mother light a few candles for her at the Infant Jesus of Prague Church. Well, maybe not the church. This one had vinyl siding and was in suburban Virginia rather than the Czech Republic, but it was the pious thought that counted.

While I was at it, I should have prayed for myself and my more immediate problem. Suits appeared to be the appropriate sitting attire. The judge’s exact words were, “Don’t come in here in one of those—those—things for the sitting.” And then she just pointed at me. I’d deduced she either meant that we should shed our skin or refrain from the hideous category of clothing we’d all taken to—the dreaded “business casual.”

Considering the judge’s affection for polyester pantsuits, I found her disdain to be a bit hypocritical. Unlike the judges, we couldn’t mask fashion atrocities with a big black robe. Had I ever even worn a suit? I quietly made my zillionth empty promise to the Person upstairs and threw open the closet doors.

On the bright side—the really bright side—there was a suit. It was neon pink. A holdover from my news producing days in Miami. It made me cringe that I’d found the thing so chic a few years earlier. In a federal courtroom, it would be like garlic to a vampire. Nearly strangling myself on a hanger wading through the muddy river of five-seasons-ago clothes, I spotted the Jewel of the Nile: an old navy Ann Taylor pantsuit, circa 1990, with the biggest shoulder pads I’d ever seen. I grabbed it hungrily, crazy with excitement. How this veritable antique had managed to survive a decade of spring cleaning was way beyond me, but who cared? Thankfully, bigger was better back in 1990 and it fit just fine.