Just My Size

Last week was stressful. Real stressful. We are in the middle of our bathroom remodel and I must say, the novelty of using the neighbor's toilet in their garage had just worn off. I had a doctor's appointment where I was handed a referral to get a blood panel to screen for diabetes (which I promtly threw into the backseat of my car to deal with later). I got a gnarly headache on the same day my husband got his first nasty bug and we weren't able to make it to perform in a show we were invited to, nor were we able to get a hold of anyone to explain our otherwise confirmed attendance, plus I was dealing with the pressures and trials of producing a show that was to debut that Saturday.

I know what I should do (so I thought), go buy some new clothes, that'll make me feel better. See, I hate pretty much everything I own, and though my closet is so packed with clothing I no longer need hangers, I seem to only use about the first quarter of what's in there.

Some of the articles are "classic" pieces that I cannot let go of even though they have far surpassed the "if you haven't worn it in a year, get rid of it" deadline; like the sea foam green Giorgio Armani tunic I bought at a Cybill wardrobe sale in 1995. Some hold sentimental value; example being the pink hand knitted sweater with flowing collar and sleeves that my mother wore to the courthouse when she married my father. Some items keep re-introducing themselves as worthy when I grab them by the hanger during my semi-annual purgings, and we promise to spend more time together (a lie we have been telling each again and again for years now).

My 2006 New Year's resolution is to dress like a girl. I used to when I was in high school. I sure did in 90s too. But something has happened in the 2000s however. Somewhere along the line, the skirts, dresses and sassy ensembles seem to have given way to long sleeved tee shirts, track suits, jeans and drawstring finery that have somehow become my uniform (and much to my husband's disappointment I might add). I always say that I will wear some of the backless numbers I have packed into my closet and in the far reaches of my dresser drawers "when it gets hot" - and I rarely do. I don't ever seem to be warm enough. Or my legs aren't tan enough. Or I don't have the right shoes to rock that look...etc. etc. etc.

So back to last week and my trip to the mall - I decide to first look for dresses! I really don't have but about two that I wear with any regularity. One is a stretchy navy blue number that I wore in 1997 when I was the bachelorette on The Dating Game. I questioned three weirdos from behind the great flowered wall, picked THE WEIRDEST one, and let my free trip to Seattle expire rather than agree to see that freak again. P.S. His exotic Irish accent disappeared the moment we were off camera "Well, I was born in Ireland, but grew up in Canada". Oh, and did I mention he and I were wearing the same shade of mocha nail polish? Chuck Whoolery had us thrust our painted hands side by side into the camera and congratulated us on our obvious kismet and I fakely enthused through a plastic smile "VERY cool" Ick.

ANYWAY, the other frock I own is a gorgeous albeit extra fancy black dress that my Grandma Joyce left me that's from the 60s. I wore it to my engagement party, my friend Jennifer's wedding and the Chicken Little wrap party. I really do feel like a million bucks in it.

I go to Macy's first and try on a pricey but fantastic flowered number with a vintage feel and wonderful flowing A-line skirt. It appears suitable for an outdoor party, summer evening fete, or a wedding. I figure if it fits and it's that versatile, I'll invest in it and get great use out of it. Alas, the zipper goes up, the waist fits beautifully but the bust is empty as a kitchen size garbage bag with a child's throw pillow in it. NEXT.

How about this pair of sweet khaki capri pants with a drawstring? I should have known by the 1 1/2 inch zipper that my back porch wouldn't be benefitting from any kind of coverage if I should ever decide to actually bend even the slightest bit forward. I turn around to see what's going on back there and the dang pockets are practically down on my mid-thigh area they are so low. Who am I - Buttney Spears? NEXT.

It goes like that dress after dress, skirt after skirt, pants after pants, shorts after shorts.

I'll be honest. I have a lovely figure. I am not fat, nor am I skinny. I am a thin girl and always have been. Where I'm a freak is that I do not follow the new guidelines for clothing making. I have broad shoulders, a tiny cage, petite waist, ample bottom and actual as-God-intended hips. I might pick up a pair of khaki pants from one store in a size 4, a pair of jeans from another in a 6, or even a size 8 depending on the manufacturer. It's a crappy crapshoot each and every time.

I've bought dresses a size or two too large and had them basically re-made to fit me, and I've spent over $30 dollars altering a $25 pair of jeans that fit everywhere but the waist. One kind alteration lady noted while pinching together the 5 inches of gaping waistline denim just above my buttcrack "You know I usually only see this in african american girls." Then there was the time I was in my friend Larissa's wedding...

The shop she sent me to was your typical bridal boutique with hundreds of silky confections in various shades of cream, taupe, pink, lavendar, red and blue. The gal who came over to help me had a thick middle eastern accent, a faceful of dark Cleopatra makeup, and tall tall blackened hair that was teased within an inch of its life on the top, and twisted up the back.

She grabbed the file for Larissa's wedding, led me over to a rack of lovely taupe dresses and asked me what size I was. "Um, I'm not sure."
"Yoor nut shoor?" she asked, rolling her R's most exotically.

She produced a measuring tape from around her neck, snatched a pair of golden framed glasses from somewhere inside her hair and placed them onto the tip of her nose. Then she hustled me into a dressing room and slammed the door behind us.

"Pleece, take uff yoor tupp and pents so I ken get accurrette measurements." She stared at me with such clinical force that I didn't have time for modesty and quickly stripped down to my bra and underwear.

She measured me around the bust, waist and hips and then just stood there staring at me while pinching her chin with her acrylic fingernails. She muttered something under her breath and then disappeared to fetch a sample for me to try.
"Here" she said while handing me the dress "Try theece on."

I pulled the dress on and zipped it up the back while the lady waited outside the door. "Ready?" She barked, and before I could say yes, she was in the dressing room walking a cirle around me. Again she pinched at her chin with one hand and grabbed at the dress with the other.

"I heff never seen ennytheeng like theece before" she announced and immediately called for the other woman on duty in the shop to join us.

So there we were, all three of us in the dressing room beholding me in the ill-fitting bridesmaid dress. They spoke in another language to each other for a few minutes before sharing their befuddlement with me.

My lady grabbed me by the shoulders and pointed me at the mirror and said "You are a size two on the tupp, and a size eight on the buttum! See.." She noted the smooth fit on the bodice of the dress, then spun me around to show me my constricted derriere under the taught fabric "Look at the febrick! See vere it's pull?"

I ended up buying a large size and having it cut down to accommodate my unique pysique, and I had to endure another dissertation on what a tailoring oddity I was when I picked the damn thing up.

So to sum up my shopping experience of last week; I came home with a short but sweet drawstring cotton skirt, a lovely peasant top and a few pairs of kicky summer sandles.

I'll find the room in my closet for these new items. And I'll have another conversation with the current tenants on whether or not they will be moving out so that I can replace them eventually with some pretty girl clothes. But here's what's hard. Though these old clothes aren't exactly in fashion, or maybe some remind me of an old job that they were worn to, or whatever is stopping me from wearing them; the truth is, they fit. I don't have to go out and be reminded that they don't make 'em like me anymore, and consequently it's near impossible to find clothes for someone like me.

The outfit seems to be either half empty, or half too full.

I'll keep trying. I'll keep looking. And I'll keep having things altered if that's what it's going to take. Let's face it, apparently they really have broken the mold with me. And that's gotta be a good thing? Right?