I’ve rarely felt elegant, but it’s always been fun trying. For years, Flash’s work Christmas parties were my once-a-year opportunities to wear a semi-formal dress. Now that those events are smaller, with only employees attending, my lonely, gorgeous, royal blue beaded tea-length halter dress hangs out with all the other has-beens in my closet. Quite frankly, my wardrobe has been on a downward spiral ever since the demise of the Blue Beaded Dress. My oh-so-boring clothes have turned against me; they’re revolting. In addition, since I’ve gone gray, I look washed out in photographs. My Winter-White Menopausal Face combined with gray hair and eyebrows makes me transparent; I’m over-the-hill Casper the Friendly Ghost in drag. Eyebrow pencils have given me my expressions back, but eyeliner went by the wayside several years ago. Except for my non-negotiable lipstick, I spend most of my days facially naked.
Once upon a time, I looked cool. In the 60s, I wore original creations made by my grandmother and sometimes by Mom. In the 70s, I was groovy, with my bell-bottom jeans, peasant blouses, and Dr. Scholl’s sandals. When Urban Cowboy came out in 1980, I bought my first country-western shirt, complete with gold vertical threads throughout, and my first cowboy hat. And, of course, boots.
During college, when dance clubs were my home away from home, I wore the most beautiful jumpsuit in the history of fashion. Bright red, a scalloped cutout design two inches below my neck, and made of rayon. I didn’t wear it every night I went out, but often. Later, when I figured Jesus would be back before I would revisit that size, I gave it away to a friend. She looked great in it, but I’ve missed staring at it over the years.
In the mid-80s, I went through an Olivia Newton-John “Let’s Get Physical” phase, during which I wore bandanas, folded to a 2-inch strip, wrapped around my forehead and tied in the back, like a headband. I had 10 different colors, to match outfits. And yes, dear reader, I wore them in public. Sometimes to church functions. Other times, I tied them with a center knot and wore then around my neck. Then I went through the Huge Shawl & Scarf Phase, learning how to tie those around my neck, around my waist, and across my body. I still have them in my scarf drawer. I have no idea why. I can’t remember the last year I wore one, but, with the way the past keeps revisiting the fashion world, I’m sure I’ll wear them again. My leg warmers, dark blue with brightly color horizontal stripes, are housed with my totally rad stirrup pants. Because I might break out in a Flash Dance scene at any moment.
Until my 30s, or maybe early 40s, I had style. Then, it stopped. I don’t know exactly when, and I surely don’t know why. But it was a glaring mistake that I’m reminded of every time I spend time with my friend Coco. She’s the epitome of style, keeping up with the current trends, and looking great in every style. After a night out with Coco, I’m ashamed to come home to my neon chartreuse cropped sweatshirt that I bought on clearance five years ago. Hey, I needed a sweatshirt, and it was either that color or bright pink. And I wasn’t in a pink mood that day.
My jeans, both pairs that fit, have been worn so often that I’m sure if I robbed a bank, and they put me in a lineup showing suspects from the waist down – which, by the way, would be totally offensive and inappropriate – I would be identified by my jeans. Especially the ones that look like they were dipped in dye from the hem to about five inches up the leg. I bought them that way, even though they’re weird, because I thought Coco would be proud of me.
I’m convinced I’m the only wife in the world whose husband says, “Please go shopping. You need some clothes.” He gets tired of reruns, unless it’s Friends or Mash.
Unfortunately, when I shop, my comfort makes a louder statement than my fashion. At Walmart last week, I searched for more long-sleeve shirts because, after surviving The Hot Years, I’m now in The Tundra Years. I’ve become my mother - easily cold and carrying a jacket everywhere I go. I found fuzzy sweatshirts on clearance. At three dollars each, I bought sea foam green, peach, and neon pink. I’m not usually a pastel girl, but survival is the name of the game in this 70-degree weather. It will be fall tomorrow, summer the next day, then winter on Sunday, etc. So I’ll rotate wearing my warm fuzzies.
On that same Walmart trip, after I made sure frostbite wouldn’t be my demise, I spotted rayon tie-dye shirts that tied in the front. As long as I live, I’ll love front-tied shirts. I wore them well into high school; at 92, I’ll be showing my midriff again. Because, when I’m that age, nobody will be looking.
After shopping, often I come home and hide my new stuff. I think, I’ll surprise Flash next time we have a date. Or maybe on summer vacation. Of course, I can never wait for summer. When I do premiere something new on a date, I don’t hear rave reviews. I don’t hear any reviews. We’ve gone out to eat, to a movie, and dancing all on the same night, without a word about my new duds. Which makes me wonder how Flash knows when I need to shop since he never notices me. I’d like to think if I left the house buck naked, he’d pay more attention. But if a Philly cheesesteak or a supreme pizza were waiting for him at a nearby restaurant, the only attention I’d get would be from the police. Hopefully, he’d come bail me out after he finished his dinner.
For the better part of 20 years, black tops and blue jeans have been my wardrobe staples. Black is my best color, if it is a color. I can’t remember. Is it an un-color? And jeans are my first love. But lately, I’ve been thinking I should spruce things up again. I need to add more color to my life. Not only in my clothes, but in earrings. I wear silver, gold, dark gray, and more silver. I was the Earring Queen for many years, wearing the biggest dangles I could find, some that looked like fishing lures. I miss the earlobe drama.
So, I’m going shopping tomorrow. I’ll start with the cosmetic department of the nearest store, first thing in the morning. Well, not first thing. Before leaving the house, I’ve got to smear a tub of moisturizer on my visage so small children won’t run into the streets screaming, “An albino raisin! I saw an albino raisin!” Children can be so cruel to the elderly. Your day will come, little smooth-faced devils.
After I return home and draw on my new eyeliner, I’ll squeeze into that Blue Beaded Dress, if it kills me. Then, I’ll somehow sit down in my car and drive to Walmart to buy some groceries. I’ll walk my fashion show runway - the canned vegetable aisle to everyone else – and change the shopping culture for an hour and a half. Finally, I’ll no longer be a walking parenthesis in the paragraph of humanity; I’ll be a sparkling, dramatic exclamation point.
This will be only the beginning of the New Me. Soon, I’ll be picking out organic zucchini while wearing a full-length ball gown and tiara
“Oooh, did you just win a contest somewhere?” an elderly woman will ask, longing to grab my crown off my head and run for the door.
Notice that my fellow shopper won’t ask if I’ve been in a beauty contest. Envy is an ugly thing.
“Perhaps Ms. Texas AARP?” she’ll continue. “Queen of the Crow’s Feet? Matron of Menopause?”
Hypothetical women are so irritating.
“No,” I’ll answer. “I simply wanted to wear something nicer than usual, to feel better about myself.”
Coming from a nearby aisle, I’ll hear, “Look Mommy. That lady likes dressing up too, like I do. But she’s an old princess. What Disney movie is she from, Mommy?”
The mother will quickly whirl her daughter around, whispering at a high decibel level, “Shhh, dear. She’s probably here on an outing with the assisted living facility down the street, and got separated from the group.”
Indignant, I’ll hitch up my skirt and run to the nearest self-checkout lane.
The next day, I’ll buy dresses for all my weekly errands, as well as chores at home. An eggplant colored satin jumpsuit for my trips to Discount Tires. A silver off-the-shoulder fitted short dress for dusting. And, of course, a red, white, and blue full-length toga style for voting day. I’ll start a trend all over the country.
Women everywhere will want to be me.
But then, everyone else will look like me. I’ll blend in with the fashion statement I created. It will be awful. I’ll still cling to my eyeliner and new earrings, but my wardrobe will have to be exiled to the back of the closet, joining that Urban Cowboy shirt.
To be noticed, I’ll have to return to my faithful jeans – both pairs – and continue wearing them until, as Flash often predicts, “You can read a newspaper through them.” I’ll put on my 30-year-old black tunic, threadbare jeans, and sexy, black, double-buckle sandals, and head out to Walmart. With my tiara firmly in place, of course. Nobody will look like me. I will make a fashion statement that will stand the test of time.
Women everywhere will want to be me.