Never judge a chick by her cover.
I don’t like shopping. I can look at oodles of cluttered stuff without leaving the privacy of my own home and it’s free. Some women might say I’m abnormal, stricken with some horrible disease. You should see our bedroom closet. My husband’s side is packed, but neatly arranged, sweats and sweatshirts for the weekend, button down shirts, sweaters, trousers, (he has a real job). My side is a careless collage of shirts, sweatshirts, shorts, and jeans. At times, I need something more and must enter a mall. My husband has been banned from the trip. When I’ve taken him before, he comes out with three bags to my one.
I don’t want to start resenting him. I go it alone. I plow through those little boutiques. I sift through the myriad of colours, textures, shapes, and sizes. I’m looking for that one outfit that will conceal my belly button donut and muffin tops without completely exposing my cream filled.
If I could order everything online, I would but there are problems with that:
1) I’m cheap and shipping is expensive for something I’ll probably have to send back, after having to lie down to get the zipper up.
2) I don’t look like those women who model the clothing. It stands to reason then that the clothing won’t look the same on me. Who are those women anyway? You know the ones I mean. Those dirty little secrets babes. Are they for real? I don’t have any friends that look like that. Maybe they’re computer generated, some techno-geeks version of a blow up doll. I know they’re real and really beautiful. I just wish the fashion industry made clothes for the average woman rather than our culture’s ideal.
I rarely find anything that I think looks good on me instore or online. I’m short. I look around and see other short people. I go shopping. Nothing fits. Either, the sleeves are dusting the floor, gorilla style, or the pants button underneath my boobs, making me look like a fat, little old man. When I try petite shops, the clothes remind me of the polyester “free and easy” top my mother wore on our road trip vacations. Funny, we mocked her for that and now I see the wisdom of it. The polyester I can do without, but who doesn’t want to feel free and easy in their clothes?
Those lingerie stores are the worst. All those lacy, shimmery, sumptuous strips of fabric made for ladies who need a little filling out. They advertise those dainties as if they’ll transform a woman into a goddess. I try something on and look more like a walrus. I’ve concluded that naked works just as well and is a lot less expensive and humiliating.
I made myself buy some underwear a couple of weeks ago. I found a three pack of frilly, floral panties and rifled through the pile for another. I was pleased with my purchase, as I thought they were pretty and my husband might think so as well. When I got home, I went to put them away and fell to my knees in despair. I had taken a pack of thongs by accident. Thongs of all things! Stores won’t give refunds on underwear. I’m stuck with them. Once, I was folding a thong belonging to my oldest daughter, like there’s enough material there to fold, and my youngest daughter looking quizzically said, “Is that a slingshot?”
I did try wearing one of those slingshots. Not because I wanted to, but because I hadn’t done laundry in a while and “Britney Spears” was the only other option. I felt like a chubby magician’s assistant with a little guy in my pants trying to saw me in two with a dull butter knife all day long. It so irks me that I paid money for something I have to constantly fish out of my butt crack.
I knew those pretty panties were too good to be true. I won’t buy anything fancy anyway. I don’t want to pay an exorbitant price for something that will be dotted with yesterday’s lunch after one wearing. If it can’t be tossed on the floor, thrown in the washing machine, and scorched in the dryer, I’m not interested. And ironing. Well, let’s just say, my ironing board sees less action than I do. I operate my iron once a year for some Christmas party. I don’t think it works, because I always arrive at the engagement fashionably late and extra crease-y. Fashionably late is the only time that fashion and I collide. I have to rely on my sparkling personality to survive the soiree. Alternatively, my husband always looks handsome and I’m happy to dangle on his arm for the evening. I’ve noticed he’s started doing his own ironing, which is how it should be.
Since such shindigs are a rare occurrence in my life, maybe my wardrobe or the lack thereof isn’t a big deal. I’ve watched the show where they surprise a woman, throw her favorite clothes in the garbage, and give her a makeover. I watched one episode where the victim looked as if she was holding back tears. I thought she looked great at the end, but the result wasn’t just because of the clothes. That woman was forced to stop and really look at herself. The hair stylist and makeup artist showed her the value of a sassy haircut and a bit of color. Someone pampered her for a couple of days and don’t tell me that isn’t life-changing. I wonder how many of these women go back to wearing the same style because it’s who they are. When some pussy cat from TV town, who claims to be an expert, says you dress like a bag lady, is it true or just one person’s opinion? Must we all wear a leather jacket, a chunky necklace, dark wash jeans, and pointy high heels to be seen as attractive?
As with any advice, one should take the useful and let the rest fall away. There are an infinitesimal number of ways to be. You and I, we are the experts on what we should wear. I start with comfortable and relatively clean. If you want to play the fashion game, I’ll ooh and aah when I see you, but I won’t be joining you. I’m sticking with my T-shirts and jeans.
Posts come out every Monday morning, a poem every third Monday. Scroll down to the bottom of the page to receive notifications of my posts via email. Follow me on Instagram username: pollyeloquent. Thanks for reading. 🙂