No-Skill Shelter

Well, what do you know … I’ve been rejected. Turned down. Kicked out. Told, in no uncertain terms, that I am not welcome wherever the hell it was that I was taken yesterday! Apparently my snide remarks about not wanting to be caught dead in that horrendous outift and my refusal to eat the chicken in white sauce that was served for lunch were not appreciated by the rest of the group.
I knew I was in even more trouble when, after “luncheon” (they couldn’t just call it “lunch”, could they?), we all had to congregate in some sort of activity room, sit in a circle, and introduce ourselves. One by one, we were to stand up, say our name, and then tell everyone what our particular “skill” was. Apparently everyone there is supposed to know how to do something “useful”.
The first woman, a real beauty named Sharon, stood up, nervously tugged her sweater down over an ass that had seen way too much white sauce in its day, and then whispered, “I can fold bottom sheets just as perfectly as they are in the package.” She sat down quickly and stared at her hands, which would not stop shaking. Her announcement was met with almost thunderous applause and a great deal of laughter. The woman to her left pulled her into a hug.
Another woman, this one named Mrs. Miller, proudly informed the group that her skill was making needlepoint samplers that included whimsical sayings. “The one most folks like best is the one that says ‘Bless This Mess’,” she said, much to everyone’s delight.
When it was my turn, I stood up, mumbled a fake name, and announced my skill.
“I’m sorry, Clarissa, but Pilates is not a skill,” the woman who appeared to be the group’s “leader” said, completely unimpressed. “What we’re looking for is something useful. Do you make potato salad? Refinish old furniture? Garden? Do you own a glue gun?”
I sat down and crossed my arms defiantly over my lighthouse sweater, cursing gently under my breath.
“All right,” she continued, struggling to identify my skill. “Can you replace drawstrings when they make their way out of, say, a sweatshirt or yoga pants?
Little did she know that just that morning I had finally gotten around to replacing the drawstring that came out of a pair of my own yoga pants last month. (I used a straw.)
“No,” I said, feigning disappointment. “I can’t.”
The door didn’t even have time to hit my ass on the way out.