This morning the cooler temperature precipitated a question that hasn’t come up for months. Do I own a suitable sweater (one that fits), and if so, where to look? First, I took a gander into my abyss of a closet, and found a barricade of mostly black shoes preventing me from stepping more than a toe into the 'space'. After climbing atop a pile of shoe debris and balancing one foot on the heel of a short boot and the other on a flip-flop (strangely, it gave me a weird sensation, of well, being graceful, moments before certain peril, I imagine much like the feeling many mountain climbers have when reaching the summit), I half-heartedly attempted to search the far reaches of the black hole (where sweaters might be). I gave up and decided to inspect the upstairs closets where the 'off-season' clothing lives thinking my chances would be slightly better for not breaking an ankle or losing an eye to a wayward wire hanger. In the unlikely event you're worried about how I get dressed every day, the clothes I wear over and over are all within a muscle spasm-arm reach of the closet doorway - no entry required.
First I checked the guest room closets and found only hundreds maybe thousands of men’s coats/jackets (another subject, but remind me to tell you about the time I was forced to retrieve one of Andy's jackets after I'd donated it to a coat drive for homeless/really cold people!), a couple of swimsuit cover ups, vacation T-shirts, a bridesmaid dress, and other items that are not considered real clothes. While thinking that Andy, on one of his manic cleaning sprees, must have chucked all my winter clothes along with other miscellaneous valuables – as he has done in the past with my roosting chicken salt & peppers(!!), bagel-slicer(!), salad shooter (eh..), and very un-'juicy' teal velour track suit (okay; it needed to go) - I decided to check out the storage area for really old clothing and other keepsakes, including my collection of Thomas McKnight jigsaw puzzles - or the large walk-in closet located between Andy’s Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired office and the bathroom with the 80’s pastel blue country calico wallpaper.
Fortunately, this closet is wide and shallow unlike the abyss, with way better lighting because the 'green' light bulbs haven't made their way to the forgotten upstairs (I'll get to that next year, Planet Earth); and the blockade of storage bins, file boxes and baskets doesn’t prevent me from looking at four decades of random clothing (from the waist up) that has somehow managed to avoid Goodwill Industries. To the left, I see Andy’s 3-piece Austin Reed 1979 wedding suit from the young men's department at Gabriel's (Mr. Triumph Bonneville! doesn't realise he was an Anglophile way back), my blue puffy coat circa 1974, the crocheted sweater crafted by 'Granny George' back in my 1980-1987 Sentry Insurance days (Georgia was the office mascot/file clerk who told dirty jokes well into her 80s - I miss you, Granny George, and I wish you were still alive because I need you (filing emergency), I really need you (lack of corny jokes)!, and assorted dresses, suits, blouses and pants, including my first pair of CK jeans, “nothing comes between me and my Calvins” from 1981. Remember when Oprah starved herself to fit into her Calvins and wheeled a wagon of lard representing her fat loss on stage? I promise I won’t do that. However, I can’t promise that my eyebrows will never resemble Brooke Shields’ (see example below -my brows are about to take flight).
To the far right of the closet, I finally discovered my Ralph Lauren sweater coat and other new-ish, possibly suitable (less than 10 years old) winter clothes. I grabbed an armful and attempted to pull across the plastic storage bin full of really important stuff like old wrapping paper situated under the baskets of photo album rejects (okay; not the best storage system). A clothing/wicker jam ensued and as I untangled the hangers, I noticed a photo of really big hair peeking out of the photo reject basket. Curious and easily distracted, I pulled out a stack of 'Glamour Shots' from the mid-80s, including the most ridiculously scary “1-900” photo ever taken. God never intended this wholesome baby face to look seductive (the look the 'photographer' was going for) and I was obviously uncomfortable with the full length black gloves, bare shoulders, red lipstick, and clip-on rhinestone earrings. The other poses were just as bad – my really big hair in a black leather jacket, gold studded denim, emerald green lame' shrouded tube top - all while looking a bit like a nauseous Marie Osmond, years before her totally publicity-driven fainting spell on DWTS.
Also, for the record, Donny O = gross, and to think that as an 11 year old I used to plead with him when he chirped "Go away, Little Girl." So sad, but our Tiger Beat options were severely limited in the early 70's. Thankfully he soon was replaced in my heart by the very talented Robbie Benson, who didn't sing, at least that I know of. God I hope not.
Getting back to the photo reject, I showed Andy the "1-900" discovery and his response was similar to mine, of course without all the babbling, and with the addition of "You can see there was a good-looking girl in there, somewhere." My husband knows how to give a compliment!
Curious: Do 1-900 numbers still exist or have they been replaced by the internet? (No answer required)
Anyway, all of this got me thinking that in the 80’s I was quite the fashion risk-taker. Of course it helped that I was in my 20’s, a size 7/9, and shopped in the junior department for most of the decade. I wore a lot of actual “outfits” and despite its reputation as one of the worst decades ever (it's all your fault, Boy George), I dare say I looked really cute in assorted ensembles (and nothing like the above - much). As a young career woman, I wore lots of suits with pencil skirts and flower pins, silk, linen and sweater dresses, both wide and skinny belts, ruffled blouses, scarfs and ties, colors other than black etc. Like most women, I actually wore slips and lacy camisoles... and the occasional glove! I had an entire drawer assigned to L'eggs panty hose (control top/sandal toe in jet black) and another to shoulder pads of all sizes. One good thing about wearing shoulder pads: you were never lonely in that there was always a presence of another person standing just beside you. I believe I may have carried on a conversation or two with my shoulder pads. A shoulder pad could be a really good friend in a pinch. You could cry on your own shoulder - no problem. They certainly increased my self-esteem - and ability to defend myself in a dark alley.
I've decided “business casual” or nearly 30 years in the insurance industry has ruined my sense of fashion risk-taking and feminine style. That or it’s more difficult to be fashion-forward as someone who resembles a size 12/14 Buddha with long legs. It’s now all about separates - black pants (no pleats), Gap cotton/spandex tanks, starched Liz Claiborne shirts, and genuine Jockey. Functional. Boring. But not naked.
So today after my closeted walk down 80’s lane, I was inspired to wear an “outfit” – well, really a black skirt (kind of faded), black leggings, black clunky heels , and a fashionable sweater - black and gray - that is if Kohl’s sells actual fashion (step it up, Daisy Fuentes!) with silver earrings - you know, to match the gray. I would have preferred Escada or a power-campaign suit from Saks or Neiman Marcus, but hey, I don’t have a political party to bankroll my wardrobe!
Okay. You're probably wondering (or not) about the self-discovery part. Well, I discovered:
a) Shoulder pads, not just hard work, made my career,
b) Like all women, there's an urge to play dress up even if you look ridiculous and IT'S OKAY as long as you don't rely on a 'business manager' (a/k/a Heidi Fleiss) and earn cash that way,
c) if you ignore things long enough (ie; upstairs bathroom wallpaper) they come back in style (if you don't believe me check out the calico/gingham in Marc Jacobs' Spring 2009 Collection), and
d) I might be turning into Granny George. In 20 years, I'll still be working in an insurance office wearing that crocheted sweater and L'eggs support hose. On the flip side, my Calvins (with an added elastic waistband for comfort) will probably fit due to osteoporosis. Finally!
Seriously, I was reminded that it is all about self-confidence - something I was sorely lacking at that 1980-something 'Glamour, schlamour" shoot. If you think you look good, you will look good. Lift your head, pull back your shoulders (padded or not), and most importantly suck in your gut. Remember always to squint when looking in the mirror. You'll look thinner.
Lastly,I’m taking applications for closet clutter counselors (closeted, optional), bathroom wallpaper-ers, and wannabe Project 'Size L' Runway fashion designers to create my new look for 2009. Only the fearless need apply. If there are any unemployed S.W.A.T. team members out there (Mr. T?) fax your resume pronto.
If you are not interested in applying, I would still love to hear from you, so if you have time when not working, please call, write, blog! I really need to know that I'm not the only "1-900" Glamour Shot out there.
CitizenB
P.S. I was able to rescue the s & p chickens and bagel-slicer before trash day. Take that, Mr. Anglophile Jacket Collector!
