Each morning of my work week I get up, shower, brush my teeth and step into the abyss that is my closet and think, “Who is this person and why does she dress like this?”
How have I reached this age without having a style that I’m happy with? Seriously. Why is this so hard? I need help. And a personal stylist. And a shopper. And possibly medication.
I approach shopping like most people approach the dentist’s office. It has to be done. It’s going to be uncomfortable and probably even painful. It’s going to cost more than I thought. There will be bad news, and there may be blood. There will definitely be an urge to spit.
There’s something about all the options or the way the stores are laid out that elicits an impending sense of doom in me. All those racks and racks of clothes stare at me, mocking, “You will never sort through us and find the hidden items that are flattering and make you feel good.”
“I know,” I whimper in response, starting up the aisle as though I’m taking the steps to the guillotine.
For this reason I tend to shop maybe once a year, or every two years. You can see why this is not a good solution. If I were shopping regularly, like normal people, I might pick up items here and there – accessories, maybe a blouse to toss into the rotation. But that’s not how I work. That would imply I know what I am shopping FOR, which is the whole problem. I have NO IDEA what I need, or what style I wish to adopt. My standards are low. “Is it clothing? Yes. Is it dry clean only? No. Does it fit? Sort of. SOLD.”
Many years ago, my dear friend, Sandy, attempted an intervention. She shoved me into a dressing room, said, “Stay there and try to keep the whimpers to a minimum. You’re scaring people.” She then did whatever it is people do to make selections from all those rack and racks of clothes and began hurling items over the top of the door for me to try. If I protested, she would say, “JUST TRY IT.” I complied. After all, what else could I do in that little room with all the mirrors and the bad lighting? Karaoke?
After about two hours of this, which included probably more cussing on my part than was absolutely necessary (think Linda Blair in The Exorcist), I emerged with 4-5 outfits for work. Crossing my heart and hoping to die, I swore that I would return for casual clothes at a later date, (never) and off we went to reward me with a nice adult beverage.
If only I could have that service on a monthly basis. Isn’t there someone out there who will drag me out of the house on weekends, force me into a mall, lock me in a dressing room and toss clothing at me? Is that too much to ask? Doesn’t that sound like tons of fun? When was the last time someone called you vile names in public?
Imagine bringing a feral cat into your house to give it a bath. The growling, the hissing, the spitting, the scratching. You could have all that with me. Without the rabies.
So, who’s in?