Fashion Woes

I have never been very fashion savvy. Just this past weekend, I filled an entire garbage bag (the big, black, heavy-duty kind) to the bursting point with clothes that have been hanging in my closet for years -- and that I have never worn. Why is it that clothes look good in the store, but never seem to look as good once you get them home? I think the stores are using trick mirrors. That would explain why I looked like Pamela Anderson in a bikini at the store and Rosanne Barr stuffed into a tiny string of spandex at home.

Here are a few posts from the past that also deal with my struggles with fashion over the years...



Rustling Pants Dance
October 20, 2000

I bought some fabulous new black pants at Express the other day. I got all excited about them, as I am wont to do when I buy a new clothing item that I deem fabulous. I ironed them lovingly last night, along with the brand new shirt bought especially to compliment the fabulous new black pants. I wore this new outfit to the office today, feeling happy and confident in my latest wardrobe acquisition.

I continued to feel happy and confident until I got up to go to the break room to get my first cup of coffee. No, it wasn't my reflection in the darkened office window which caused me to be distressed. It was that fact that in this extremely quiet office, my brand-new outfit is very loud! Whatever material these pants are made of produces a sound akin to that made by an overweight person wearing tight corduroys.

The lower portion of the pants are flared (kind of like bell-bottoms, but not as pronounced). The extra material around my ankles swishes together with every step, like a cricket rubbing its hind legs together to produce sound.

I didn't notice it in the store, of course, because of all the hub-bub associated with a mall. And I didn't notice it in my apartment because I didn't put them on until I was ready to walk out the door (to minimize wrinkling), nor did I notice it while walking across the parking lot of the office building because of the street traffic running alongside the complex. It wasn't until I was walking through the half-empty cubicle graveyard that I became aware of the fact that I was wearing an outfit which was, essentially, turning me into a walking one-woman band.

People, these pants are effecting the way I walk. I find that I am taking larger and wider steps. I caught a glimpse of myself in the darkened office window/mirror and was horrified to see that the reflection was that of a lumbering chimp wearing my brand new outfit! So, I have only left my desk twice this entire day. These pants are holding me prisoner in my cube!

I feel that clothing stores should affix warning labels to certain items, alerting the consumer of the possibility that the article of clothing may be the source of an embarrassing sound situation. It is the only responsible thing to do. Until then, however, I would suggest that you exercise caution when purchasing suspect materials. If you find yourself trapped in your cubicle unable to even get up to go to the bathroom lest you disturb the entire office with your rustling pants dance, don't say I didn't warn you.




The White Pants
June 8, 2001

Yesterday at lunch I went in search of some white pants. For the longest time I have avoided the dreaded white pants fad and swore that I would never stoop to own a pair. They went against everything I held sacred as a woman of fashion. My main problem being that white pants are merciless. They show every single flaw. And, in my enlightened fashion state, I have shuddered every time I have encountered a woman who failed to see this. I was determined not to fall victim to this gross miscalculation of just how much fat can be stored inside a huge expanse of white material and not be offensive to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind me. But I kept seeing all these thin, cute, young things parading around in their hip, white pants and I thought, "Dammit! I can still wear white pants, can't I?" No, seriously people, I'm asking...can't I?

Well, as of yesterday, I am the owner of some capri length stretch lycra/cotton blend pants from the Gap. So let's hope she still can.

But, why, if I am so opposed to this fashion trend, and ultimately terrified of misjudging just what I can and cannot put on my body, did I buy them -- nay, seek them out like the last of the Pokemon trading cards -- in the first place?

Well, it all started with the cutest light brown sweater tank. You see, I simply had to buy this garment. You know how sometimes you just aren't given a choice? It calls to you from across the store and the minute you put it on you know that you are powerless to put it back on the rack? Well, that's exactly how this sweater ended up in my possession -- and 50 of my hard-earned dollars found themselves in the possession of Rich's.

So, here I am with this fabulous top -- so fabulous, in fact, that I put it on at least once a night just to remind myself of how fabulous it is -- and yet nothing to wear it with.

Sure, I could go with the classic black pants. But too many of my outfits are based on the black pants. And this sweater is way to amazing to wear with jeans. Whenever I have entered a store since the buying of said amazing sweater, I have searched in vain for the perfect pair of pants to wear with this glorious find.

And then, one day while strolling through the mall on one of my many lunch-hour fashion treasure hunts, I saw her -- a woman wearing a light brown sweater/white pants combo. And it looked great! It was then I knew that I would have to sacrafice everything I had believed in fashion-wise for the sake of this light brown sweater tank.

But buying a simple pair of white pants is anything but simple. The very first pair I tried on left me with the horrifying discovery that not all white pants are lined. What in the hell is that? Why in the name of all that is fashionable, would you make white pants that have no lining? Hello? Just what in the heck are the fashion gods expecting us to wear under these things? Any type of underwear is so grossly apparent you might as well be wearing them outside the pants. And any attempt at going comando could only be perceived as a violation of several indecency acts. Either choice will automatically ensure that you wind up in the back of Glamour magazine with a black bar graphically imposed over your eyes and carrying the dreaded label "Don't."

The other version of white pants that I came across in abundance, was of the crack-revealing, blood-circulation-preventing polyester nightmare club pants. There were plenty of white jean choices, but, as I said before, this sweater deserves better than denim.

So, after four pair of non-lined, two pair of insanely tight low-riding-slut-club style and one pair of 100% linen (which is just begging for anything to be spilled on), I finally found a pair of white pants, classicly fit, complete with lining, that offers both the thong or the comando option. So, yea, me. I finally own some white pants. I went home right after work and tried the new white pants on with the fabulous light brown sweater tank -- and I knew I had made the right choice.

I was planning to wear that outfit this weekend. However (and here's the kicker), my back hurts and my uterus is currently trying to claw its way out of my body -- and we all know what that means. So, after all that, I think the black pants it is.

 
 
Linen Nightmare
May 11, 2000
 
Linen -- A Blessing Or A Curse?

You know those people who neurotically fuss with their clothes -- while they are wearing them? The people who, the minute they sit down, smooth out the front of their skirt; who take great care with the process of actually sitting down to minimize the damage done to their garments as they crease the material? The people who, even while they are just standing still, constantly readjust to make sure the fabric hangs correctly and in the most flattering way possible?

I am one of those people.

And, let me tell you, for people like me, linen is a nightmare.

It’s bad enough to worry about cotton or even denim (which can wrinkle, too, by the way), but for a person with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, voluntarily donning an outfit made of linen is a practice in self-hatred.

So, I’m wearing my all-linen outfit today. I never said I liked me.

The skirt is long and straight in a lovely shade of navy blue. The top is a light, summery shell in the breezy shade of white. Both items were purchased at Old Navy -- the linen Mecca.

I delayed actually putting on these items until I was completely ready to walk out the door. (Well, completely minus the clothing, of course.) I did this to avoid any unnecessary wrinkling as I was performing my morning rituals. I learned from the first time I wore this skirt, that the acts of brushing teeth, styling hair, putting on makeup and any other activities which require bending, kneeling or, well, movement, ruined the smooth front of the skirt before I even had the chance to walk out the door.

I had ironed these items with the care of a mother tending to her newborn, and then hung them up just as delicately, pushing aside the other clothes in my closet to give them their due space apart from the other closet inhabitants.

Then, I walked outside, sat down in my car, buckled my seat belt -- and it all went to hell.

Now, I’m sitting in front of my computer lamenting the fact that I must bend at the waist in order to do this and fretting that I won’t be able to get through the rest of the day without having to bend again. I’m not sure it can be done.

So, you may suggest, “Why don’t you just NOT wear linen?”

Yeah, right. And why don’t I just NOT breath while I’m at it.