It was the seventh time I had changed my dress, and I was hastily rummaging through my wardrobe, looking for that perfect color code to meet the requirements of my Father's aunt's funeral.
In doing so, I had spent more than two hours and not spared my sibling's wardrobe in the hope that it could offer me something; I could not go beyond this because the supply of clothes I had was limited and all my options were exhausted.
I, for some reason, always think in sequence and order, and an invisible order runs through my neural pathways in search of that colour code that was struggling to match the standard I had in my head for a funeral attire.
After three hours and seven attempts, with no more options left, I decided to abort the search and went straight to my grandmother's residence to attend the funeral.