I sincerely do not fucking understand how other people manage to get dressed every day, I really don't. Each morning I am faced with a wardrobe that, while overflowing, consists mostly of things that don't fit, things that I can't wear because I haven't ironed, things with lingering pit stains and/or smell, things that I have spilled mustard on, or things that can only be worn to costume parties. It can be assumed that the few garments that survive this elimination round won't go together. Every day is a struggle, not just because of the daunting state of sartorial affairs but because I find myself embodying yet another simpering girl stereotype. "Ooooh, I have nothing to wear," I shriek in my head, capering around a closet so stuffed I can barely shut the doors. Could anything be more degrading?
There is nothing I know of that can solve this problem. Tempting as it is to just chuck it all and start over, money wouldn't help. I could steal the entire contents of the Cambridgeside Galleria and it wouldn't do a thing: removed from their air-conditioned habitat, pulled from their spotlit refuge and thrust into the harsh light of day, the freshly steamed shirts and crisply folded pants and gracefully draped sweaters would last maybe a day or two before joining the rest of my sad, bedraggled stuff in its parade of shame.
It's something about me, I guess. I iron a shirt, and by the time I get to work it looks like someone tried to eat it. I put on a pair of pants, bend over once, and the butt is sagging down to my knees. I can do all the sorting my little heart desires, but every time I do a load of laundry my clothes get closer to their goal of becoming one: colors approach the same shade of dingy brown-gray, fibers intermingle until you can't distinguish a washable silk blouse from a terrycloth robe. Nothing is safe from my powers of destruction. If I manage to find a fabric durable enough to withstand wrinkles, I spill something on it. If it's stainproof, well, I'm sure to stumble into a jigsaw or something and rip the damn thing. Or I get creative with the laundering and shrink it down to Britney size. If it turns out to be indestructible, then I'm certain to not have the right shoes.
I always start out with good intentions; you have no idea how great I look in my head. And I even have a decent basic sense of what shapes are flattering, what colors go together, just how much of Gradma's costume jewelry one can get away with wearing. You just wouldn't know it to look at me. The grim three-dimensional reality of wearing clothing, keeping it clean, keeping all the buttons on and the collars straight and blah blah, is just too much for me.
I implore those I know to give me a bit of hypocritical leeway here. Although I'm sure you all know how much I love to look askance at hoochie mamas and stirrup-pants wearers, I beg you to try to see beyond my crinkly, stained, lumpy, ill-fitting reality and try to find the vision I started out with. Somewhere, there is a kernel of aesthetic pleasure to be found, even if it's only latent.
Oh, and could you warn a girl if you invite her over to a no-shoes household? Some of my socks still don’t have holes, you know. If I'm going formal, I need a little advance notice. Jeez.
Posted by hilatron at September 18, 2003 08:43 PM | TrackBackDamn, girl, I could not be more on your wavelength. I can offer no advice. My closet sends me into guilty fits for exactly the same reason. Only I haven't yet acknowledged that throwing it all out and starting over doesn't work. Nor have I dismissed the idea that it would all magically come together, clean, pressed, and fantastic, if I lost 10 pounds.
Posted by: EV at September 19, 2003 11:52 AM"I iron a shirt, and by the time I get to work it looks like someone tried to eat it." gotdamn can i ever sympathize with that, that is one hell of a line.
i have clothes spilling out of every corner of this fucking apartment and 80% of them are either dirty, ripped, out of style, too small, too big, a free t-shirt from some stupid organization, or ugly shit bought on clearance at some store. i wear the same damn pants to work every damn week, so regularly that i have apparel known as "monday pants", "wednesday pants", and "friday pants".
i like to get all fancy-pantsed for a night out with the liquor and the fabulous people, but if i'm just going to the workplace with the losers, i settle for being bathed and deodoranted. that's why almost all of my workplace apparel is black. i don't have enough energy to mix and match the shit.
Posted by: qdl at September 21, 2003 03:07 PMone time my boss (kenny) took me to a fancy korean restaurant and i showed up in the nastiest dirtiest sneakers in the middle of summer with no socks and well... changed the atmosphere of the place. slippers had to be found for me. if i wasn't such an asshole i would have been humiliated.
Posted by: tree at September 23, 2003 11:47 AMi think you look cute. always.
i have fashion MPD. (multiple personality disorder.) aside from that, my favorite outfit consists of a black tee shirt, jeans, and chunky shoes. i'm like the female steve jobs, minus the sensible vegan shoewear. if i could wear that outfit every day, i might feel cute all the time.
Posted by: jenni at September 25, 2003 08:42 PMblack t.shirt, armani jeans, adidas monaco gp...and that's all! A pair of Ray Ban sunglasses give the final touch... What do you think about that?
Posted by: GU at January 10, 2004 09:05 AM