As he collected the children’s offering at church, the little tyke eyed my outfit and asked something to the effect, “Why do you always wear that?”
I wanted to respond with something like “How’d you get to be such a smart Alec?” What are you, 6? Who made you a fashion critic already?”
But I responded that this was my favorite outfit for church, it was pretty and I liked it. I then saved my best coins for the next kid coming down the aisle.
It may come as a shocking surprise, but I am not a fashionista. I may watch “Project Runway” on Lifetime on late-night Thursdays because it is on late night and I am enthralled with what someone could do with the challenge to make an outfit look like the color of a yogurt flavor.
I have trouble just sewing buttons back on that have come off. Hemming a pair of pants that drag the floor? Forget about it! So I admire the expert tailors and seamstresses that can throw together an ensemble in 48 hours for Project Runway.
I also thought Dmitry from Belarus was cute and was glad he won top honors at the end of the season. Not that I could wear his clothes or even fit into them. Most store mannequins have more shape than the models on the show. Somebody needs to take those girls to a Baskin Robbins already (and not let them regurgitate the ice cream in the bathroom afterwards. Now isn’t that a pretty picture?)
At any rate, style is not my middle name. I have a handful of clothes I like to wear, and I literally wear them out before I move on. (Same with shoes.)
I will generally wear my Hawaiian dress one day of the week, my black pants another, my favorite church outfit on at least one weekday and usually to church, jeans on Friday and Sunday and one of the dresses I can get away with wearing knee highs with on the other day of the week.
That’s my weekly wardrobe schedule. I might mix up the days, the black pants Tuesday or maybe this week on Wednesday. I might even wear a different outfit for church just to confuse the smart-faced 6-year-old.
The older I get, the more comfortable I want to be in my clothes. I like loose, layered outfits with sleeves that preferably cover my floppy upper arms and ideally cover the entire arms. I hate tight anything, whether it is a skirt, blouse, sweater or undergarment.
I figure I will be one of those old ladies who always wear a sweater and hardly ever wears a bra. Don’t worry. I’m not there yet.
It isn’t that I don’t have money for a few new clothes. My sister who helps me keep track of my finances reminds me I have a few shekels saved for garments and probably wishes to high heavens I would put some of them to use.
For me, clothes shopping usually consists of new trouser socks, a few plus-size dollar-price pantyhose, maybe even a new bra or six-pack of jumbo underwear and if I’m really going all out, a new nightshirt with Mickey Mouse on it.
The few times I have felt inclined to look for anything more, I have had trouble: A) finding my size; B) finding my style; or C) finding my price range.
One time I ordered a dress, or at least that’s what it looked like in the catalog, from a plus-size mail order place. Believe me, one size does not fit all.
The tent still hangs in the closet.