Had to shop for (shudder) clothes today. We'll be headed for Colorado with Sonny in a week and needed to look at some couture. I rate clothes shopping right up there with root canals and colonoscopies. In fact, I rate all shopping with physically invasive procedures unless it's food shopping. The birth of Internet buying was a miracle of extraordinary means in my life, but I digress.
While clothes shopping the mirror cannot be avoided and it's not tilted like the one I have in my bedroom to make me look smaller. And I don't know these clothes yet. Will they cover the various wrinkles, rolls, and jiggly parts? And I am forced to admit for the thousandth time that my bra does not fit properly. Go and have a professional lingerie person fit you , my friend Susan says. You go, Susan. After three lumpectomies resulting in unsymmetrical boobs and the ravages of gravity and stretch marks, only a very limited group is on the see-me-naked list. What did Sindbad's magician say? Only three men should see a woman naked: her husband, her doctor, and her magician. Sorry, a Younkers staff person is not on that list.
I lost my butt at the beginning of menopause but thanks to my mid-section bulge I was still able to keep the pants up. A loss of a few pounds recently due to the summer's drama plus an extreme exercise regiment has resulted in a reduced pants size and I am stalking the aisles again. You can't buy clothes on the Internet unless you're seven years old.
Who wears this stuff, hookers? (Note above photo.) And I do not like the rebirth of the sixties or any other decade in fashion. I saw enough peace signs, tie-dye, bell-bottoms and psychedelic colors back then and do not need to see them again on my 58-year-old body. And besides, they were not that particularly interesting the first time around. Everybody was stoned back then and they looked groovy but in the emotionless cold atmosphere of the office they are annoying and distracting.
Somebody explain this to me. How can I be a size 10 for Gloria Vanderbilt, a size 8 for Lee, and size 6 for Sonoma? Okay, I understand the Gloria Vanderbilt situation because she is a skinny bitch who is vain and self-centered and who wants all women other than her models to feel fat and miserable, so she has upped the sizes. And Sonoma, well, they are sweat pants material but they also have a zipper, a button and drawstrings. What's that all about? I am attracted to these pants because I know they are not going anywhere. This is a concern to a buttless woman who while standing in a line at Wal-mart last Christmas with her arms achingly full of items and no clear counter in sight felt her jeans slowly shimmying down her hips. Dang, why didn't I wear the good old cotton big mama underpants (Dave's description) instead of the slinky, polyester models. At least the cotton has a little grip to it.
Anyway, if I should ever achieve any kind of political power I will have this investigated. Laws will be changed and rules will be followed. And Gloria will find herself with a day in court in front of a row of judges who will have a lot of questions.
I throw the bag in the back of the car. I saved $154 at Kohl's today, the clerk says. Without even trying. At home I go through my new purchases and notice the colors. A charcoal grey, two black and one brown. Depressing colors, yes? Just a time in my life I would say. And two white shirts. "I'm never buying you white again," I hear my mother say, "you'll just spill something on it." What am I, five years old? (I was 47 at the time.) Ah, Marie.
And here's an interesting coincidence. The day after my shopping spree I stop in to visit Dad. "Strange," he says, "I can't believe we missed this. I found a box of your mother's clothes in the closet. How did we miss that?" I would have to agree. Amy and I and Dad scoured all three floors and I don't see how that big box was overlooked. Took the stuff home, and yep, it was all in my new size. I had to pass on the red capris and the purple corduroys. Thanks, Mom.