I went shopping yesterday. For clothing. This is an unusual happening. I haven’t shopped for clothes in ages except my sortie to Target, which was really more for existential dislocation than purchase. And I haven’t shopped for clothes that weren’t work clothes in centuries. But I went out for drinks with some of my colleagues from my misplaced job, and I saw one of them looking at me oddly. “What,” I said, “You are amazed at my wildly stylish look and the depths to which I have sunk?” “Something like that,” he said.
Below is what I was wearing. Yes, really. Notice the High WASP behavior in which you just always wear the same jewelry and carry the same “good” bag.
These are clothes that belonged to my kids and even my kids had the good sense to leave behind. Honestly, my mother would never recover if she knew I left the house like that. My mother is a good woman. She wouldn’t judge me. But some part of her would wonder what she had done wrong. Or whether I had some terrible sorrow I wasn’t telling her about. And, more pratically, since I cannot live forever on cute photos of my son eating baby sweet potatoes and the sight of my garden out my back window, I will need to return to work. And let’s just say that if I were to meet someone as I walked around wearing those clothes, the likelihood that anyone in a position to hire me would be favorably swayed approaches zero. So. I went shopping.
Most importantly I needed shoes. But here’s the problem. High WASPs don’t want to wear uncomfortable shoes. Actually, they won’t do it unless they are winning an award or something. There is no point in my going all Stacy and Clinton and getting myself a cute green jacket and some wacky pumps because I won’t put them on. My goal here was only to find some things comfortable enough to put them on and respectable enough that I don’t have to duck into a doorway should I spot someone I might know in a professional context. That’s it. That’s all I have to do. So I got shoes. Then I went to Banana Republic and got pants. I might also go to Levi’s and get some boyfriend jeans.
And then, even if the above is OK, then what on earth do I wear to replace my son’s Santa Barbara Surf Shop sweatshirt? Jeans jacket? Too butch. Cardigan? Whatever it is has to be of throw in the washing machine caliber. Hoodie? People I am 52 years old, despite any delusions of indie hip I may cultivate. Lordy lordy lordy I may have to go back to the mall twice in one week. Save me.