Going Into the Closet
I have a friend who really knows her way around a closet. She can throw on a rainbow striped shirt and plaid pants and make them look-well, if not good, at least not bad. She’s also a very honest person. Which is a fabulous quality in a friend, but a worrisome trait in a potential shopping partner. Nonetheless, shopping we went.
I wear a lot of black-a lot. Too boring, according to my friend. But perhaps even more abominable than the colors I wear-or don’t wear, as the case may be-is the way I wear the clothes. Too loose, she says. And don’t even get her started on my shoes.
Believe it or not, I wasn’t the least bit insulted to hear all of this. "Stylish" wouldn’t even be in the top 100 words I would use to describe myself, so I wasn’t exactly blindsided. I’m not laboring under the impression that a bulky gray cable knit sweater is going to earn me a fashion spread in Vogue.
I’m cold pretty much all year round, so when I buy a piece of clothing, it must pass a test consisting of two questions: Is it warm? Is it black? If the answer to both questions is "yes," into my closet it goes.
My pal, Mandy, was determined to change all that, and so we spent what seemed to be 20 hours at the mall one evening. Can you tell I’m also not a very enthusiastic shopper?
Naturally, my first stop was sweaters. Making my way to some ribbed turtleneck numbers, I triumphantly uncovered a size medium and hoisted it into the air. Black, of course. She yanked it out of my hands. "Pick a color," she instructed. I pointed at a tan sweater, which earned me a dirty look in response.
"Brown?" I asked hopefully. Again, a veto.
She picked up a pale pink sweater and, holding it up to my face, she simply commented, "Ewww." Love that honesty.
She handed me a dark orange sweater, size small. Not even bothering to protest the color, I said, "But I have a blue sweater just like this at home, and it’s a medium."
"I know," she said. "I’ve seen it, and it’s too baggy. Just try a small."
She sat outside my dressing room, taking her place beside husbands holding handbags, while I tried on the sweater. Struggling to get it over my head, I made choking noises. "Even my neck is too big for this sweater!" I yelled.
I finally got the thing situated on my torso and just stood there for a minute, racking my brain to figure out who I looked like. Then it hit me: Velma from Scooby-Doo.
But I bought it anyway. I discovered that clingy sweaters can make mountains out of molehills.
Then we moved on to pants. She handed me a pair of hip-hugger jeans, which she thought would suit me. Theoretically, it seemed perfect. My lot in life includes a small waist and a fairly substantial backside, which may work for J. Lo, but in real life just makes for a painful shopping experience. So hip huggers sounded like a good idea: I’ve got a lot of hip to hug, and I wouldn’t have to worry about a too-loose waist.
Once I had them on, I didn’t think they looked quite right, but what did I know? Not much, which is why I was in this florescent-lit hell. I stepped out of the dressing room so Mandy could offer up her critique. "Oy, that doesn’t look good," she confirmed, tugging at my trousers. "See this? It’s not supposed to gape here. And this? It’s not supposed to be tight here."
Even the dressing room attendant-a man, by the way-put in his two cents. "I wouldn’t," he said, cringing.
Just what every woman wants to hear from a strange man.
There were more hits and a lot more misses, but I walked away from the excruciatingly long evening with several new pieces of clothing-mostly more sweaters. But I did buy a pair of red pants. I haven’t actually worn them yet, but I figure the fact that they’re there, breaking up the black monotony of my closet, counts for something.
I may have started out as the poster child for Eddie Bauer, but I ended up a contender for the pages of J. Crew. Hey, I’m baby-stepping my way to that Vogue spread. TPW
I wear a lot of black-a lot. Too boring, according to my friend. But perhaps even more abominable than the colors I wear-or don’t wear, as the case may be-is the way I wear the clothes. Too loose, she says. And don’t even get her started on my shoes.
Believe it or not, I wasn’t the least bit insulted to hear all of this. "Stylish" wouldn’t even be in the top 100 words I would use to describe myself, so I wasn’t exactly blindsided. I’m not laboring under the impression that a bulky gray cable knit sweater is going to earn me a fashion spread in Vogue.
I’m cold pretty much all year round, so when I buy a piece of clothing, it must pass a test consisting of two questions: Is it warm? Is it black? If the answer to both questions is "yes," into my closet it goes.
My pal, Mandy, was determined to change all that, and so we spent what seemed to be 20 hours at the mall one evening. Can you tell I’m also not a very enthusiastic shopper?
Naturally, my first stop was sweaters. Making my way to some ribbed turtleneck numbers, I triumphantly uncovered a size medium and hoisted it into the air. Black, of course. She yanked it out of my hands. "Pick a color," she instructed. I pointed at a tan sweater, which earned me a dirty look in response.
"Brown?" I asked hopefully. Again, a veto.
She picked up a pale pink sweater and, holding it up to my face, she simply commented, "Ewww." Love that honesty.
She handed me a dark orange sweater, size small. Not even bothering to protest the color, I said, "But I have a blue sweater just like this at home, and it’s a medium."
"I know," she said. "I’ve seen it, and it’s too baggy. Just try a small."
She sat outside my dressing room, taking her place beside husbands holding handbags, while I tried on the sweater. Struggling to get it over my head, I made choking noises. "Even my neck is too big for this sweater!" I yelled.
I finally got the thing situated on my torso and just stood there for a minute, racking my brain to figure out who I looked like. Then it hit me: Velma from Scooby-Doo.
But I bought it anyway. I discovered that clingy sweaters can make mountains out of molehills.
Then we moved on to pants. She handed me a pair of hip-hugger jeans, which she thought would suit me. Theoretically, it seemed perfect. My lot in life includes a small waist and a fairly substantial backside, which may work for J. Lo, but in real life just makes for a painful shopping experience. So hip huggers sounded like a good idea: I’ve got a lot of hip to hug, and I wouldn’t have to worry about a too-loose waist.
Once I had them on, I didn’t think they looked quite right, but what did I know? Not much, which is why I was in this florescent-lit hell. I stepped out of the dressing room so Mandy could offer up her critique. "Oy, that doesn’t look good," she confirmed, tugging at my trousers. "See this? It’s not supposed to gape here. And this? It’s not supposed to be tight here."
Even the dressing room attendant-a man, by the way-put in his two cents. "I wouldn’t," he said, cringing.
Just what every woman wants to hear from a strange man.
There were more hits and a lot more misses, but I walked away from the excruciatingly long evening with several new pieces of clothing-mostly more sweaters. But I did buy a pair of red pants. I haven’t actually worn them yet, but I figure the fact that they’re there, breaking up the black monotony of my closet, counts for something.
I may have started out as the poster child for Eddie Bauer, but I ended up a contender for the pages of J. Crew. Hey, I’m baby-stepping my way to that Vogue spread. TPW