As I sit here clad in balloon-like linen pants which are at least a foot too long and never cease to trip me, I reflect upon the greatest mysteries of human existence...why are we here? what does infinity really mean? What kind of bra should I wear under this ill-fitting blouse? Can I get away with wearing a form-fitting yoga tank top INSTEAD of a bra? What will the people of Egypt do with their hard-won freedom? You know, the usual deep stuff.
I think I am far more likely to answer the infinity question than the bra question. Because despite a few sputtering and futile attempts to become stylish, I just don't understand fashion and I never will. I say this not to complain, but to state a fact, and to also offer fair warning to anyone who may see me and wonder whether I'm wearing a bra. If in doubt: assume I'm not.
It all began when, as a hippi child in San Jose, CA, I refused to wear clothing. It's true. I have plentiful photo evidence, which I would post if a) I could figure out how to hook up the scanner I received for Christmas or b)I was not afraid of getting flagged by the cast of Criminal Minds as a person who posts pictures of children for less wholesome reasons. My poor mother made some half-hearted attempts to enforce the "cover up your body with clothing" rule, but she had no luck. At least in the nude I was safe from the disastrous fashion choices that marred my 1st grade social life. As a stubborn 6 year old, I was convinced that one should wear pants underneath their dresses. Twenty years later the pants under dress look did become a short-lived fashion trend, but sadly I cannot claim that I was ahead of my time. I really just didn't feel like crossing my legs during floor time.
And it wasn't just about clothing. For example, I didn't experience the joy of brow waxing or pedicures until I was in my mid-twenties. Who knew that the black caterpillars residing on my brow line could be tamed into graceful lines that accentuated, rather than hid, the eyes beneath? Or that you can actually pay a very modest amount to have someone (usually not from this country) transform your toes from rotting stumps into little pink petite fours (or should I say petite fives...snicker snicker)? Thankfully, through the years I was visited by a few fashion fairies who bestowed their great wisdom upon me, by way of subtle hints and mandatory makeover sessions.
But even with my new found ability to schedule pedicures and brow waxes, I still find myself mystified by some of the primary rules of fashion. Just to name a few:
1) layering. WHY ON EARTH would you buy 3 separate garments when you can be just as warm in 1? And how do you get the garments to complement each other without exposing various rolls?
2) earrings. They're small, they're easy to lose, and they never cease to turn my ear lobes into red flaming crustaceans. Not pretty.
3) skinny jeans. Enough said.
4) Stripes. Enough said.
5) Shoe collecting. I just don't get it. What's wrong with having 2 or 3 good comfy pairs of shoes which you wear for years, until their aroma causes crowds to part like the red sea? I try to act sympathetic when my girlfriends vent about how they just can't resist buying more shoes. But really I am thinking "I could have bought an entire layer-free outfit for the cost of 1 of your shoes".
So I've come to the conclusion that I will never be fashion-savvy. And I am OK with this for multiple reasons. As a mom, even my "nice" clothing winds up splattered with baby prunes and baby poo anyway. Plus, Rob never complains about my unique style (or lack thereof). Although come to think of it, he is the one who pointed out that my pants were balloon-like.
Ahhhhh....we are so alike!
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