I was enjoying a vast, flowing stream of fascinating topics about which to write, sitting at the Brick Oven over a glass of cheap Pinot Grigio and a slice of cold pizza. I had a shitload of trails to follow: my therapist's hair, the secret life of Tom Delay, ten things you do instead of going to your own mother's funeral.
I get home and fire up the laptop, ready to commend my brilliant thoughts to electronic media. But suddenly, with the cat rowring and the fishtank dirty and my clothes I just bought still in the sacks that say GAP and NY and CO, I find myself completely blank. Except for a faint pang of concern, looking at those sacks of clothes.
An uncomfortable realization forms: Now that I'm in my late thirties, I have resigned myself to the path of least resistance in fashion.
Not that I was ever much of a maven. My idea of accessorizing was wearing the same earrings for months until I reached up and noticed that I'd lost one (and who knows how long I'd gone around with just the one). For the most part, I favored Rock-n-Roll casual, thinking it vastly more important that everyone knew that I dug the Pixies than looking like I gave a damn. For those days when I really wanted to make an impression, I had a small collection of unusual, cool shirts with collars, like that fitted denim number with the embroidered longhorns that made me look all Rockabilly sexy (too fat for it now).
I tried to diversify. I'd drive around to all the little boutiques, looking for something that would really show the world what I was all about. All I found were tiny, overpriced swatches of cloth intended for girls far scrawnier than me.
I looked all over town because I didn't want to throw my money at the mall. I didn't want to go anywhere near the mall. And I certainly don't like buying clothes that are made in Sri Lanka by obscenely underpaid ten-year-olds.
I found
neighborhoodies.com, where you can create your own hoodies, tees, bags and so forth, adorned with whatever message you need to tell the world. I was instantly in love, and set out to make all the most important statements, such as
'Beck. His Beat Is Correct.'But I found that I can't live by tee shirts alone. As I grow older and plumper, I've started to lean towards clean lines, crisp collars, and bold colors. Pants that fit me well. Decent prices. And I end up at the fucking mall. Sri Lanka be damned, I shop the GAP.
I'm not proud. And I would really like to see some of these small clothing stores help a sister out by carrying a size range beyond tiny to microscopic. I'd like to see more companies like
American Apparel , and I'd like to see them do a wider range of styles.
In the meantime, I'll crawl the sale racks and pray for the day I find the One True Belt that, when worn, offers admirers a window to my brillance.
