"There's a brand new dance
but I don't know its name."
- David Bowie, "Fashion"
I suppose at the beginning of a new year many will sit down and look at goals and plans for the future. Most will tend to hope their ship stays righted and on the same course. Others will look for a better circumstance. All of us will hope and pray against unusual or untoward events. Primarily, I'll hope to go another year without having to clean out my closet.
Yes, it has come down to that. My last dug-in entrenchment must remain intact. I know it's the home of old cameras, audio gear of each of the past 3 decades, photo albums, diplomas, unsent warranty cards and game-worn hockey jerseys from players with careers as long as 7 years, but it's mine. The boys treat it like untapped treasure, wandering out with things unseen in a generation, wanting to know 'what's this go to?'. Discovering parts of started coin collections, weather radios, gold plated graduation pens, polarizing lenses and even a gold crown from the upper left bicuspid of my beloved grandfather. Stuff with stories behind it. Treasure.
And then there's the clothes...
The previous assaults have come as loaded questions such as,"Do you think you could get much for this on eBay?" or "Exactly what year did you buy this?". The best is, "Tell me precisely when you might wear this again?" as a pair of ultra double pleated front Ralph Lauren labeled pants that honestly would fit Ralph Kramden are wagged in front of me. I answered with what I always answer with: "Tuesday."
I don't have fashion sense. I don't need to. I work in pajamas. Part of the reason I chose my job is because I can work in pajamas. The biggest decision I make about my wardrobe is "light blue or dark blue." When I come home, I toss on a pair of jeans, a different pair of sneakers and something lavish like a thunder sweatshirt.
Yee-haw.
There was a time where I was the clothes horse though. I dated a bona fide clothes horse for awhile and that was simply a different artform. It was serious stuff. It was contagious. For a while there, I could honestly tell you the difference in this year's and last year's Liz Claiborne shoes. And with some pride, I might add. I became a ladies shoe snob. To this day, I will tell a patient that she is the "Nicest shoes of the Day"-winner, but they really do have to be nice. We're talking at least a three inch heel and black strappy covers everything, except maybe red patent...huh?...where was I? But I digress. Fashion scouting reports, field trips, mental note-taking at church. Once purchased, everything had a shelf life. Oscar de la Renta was likely shorter lived than anything with Oscar Meyer on it.
Someone will have to explain to me the whole jeans thing. Guys denim that has been 'bedazzled' and then charged $300 for, needs to come with an explanation. I'm not saying it couldn't happen. But. In my previous lifetimes, those fashion choices usually required a lost wager, photographs of compromising nature and a great deal of alcohol. I don't give a damn how big the dragon is across my ass, I ain't wearing it. Unless, of course, it can get me in a position of compromising nature while consuming a great deal of alcohol.
On a matter of principle, I went way retro and bought some plain old Levi 501's. That's right boys and girls. Button fly. I felt like I'd stormed the halls of fashion like Napoleon as I threw on a pair in my size 33/33's, sucking it in with all my might...only...to...not...have to. They fit. It felt awesome. And then in some weird reality, it didn't. I felt small and puny. Now wait, I still bought them, after all that label on your butt is like walking around with the Stanley Cup, regardless if you've spent 1500 hours in the gym or have a highly functioning tape worm.
I think I have four suits, which after buying one Italian suit with a simply surreal handmade custom shirt (I think the real word is 'blouse'..and for $350 it better have it's own word) is three suits too many. Honestly, if left to my own devices, I'd go into the deep end for suits. I read once where an Italian designer said a full tailored suit should be the most comfortable thing you own, and laughed. Then I got one. I stopped laughing. Nice shoes are the same way. It's probably criminal in certain circles that I only have four pairs of shoes not used specifically for triathlon training, but I return to the point of my daily routine.
But maybe that speaks to the whole closet thing. I don't particularly 'out-grow' things, and I've rarely bought too much stuff that was completely 'out there'. (except for my one pair of hideous "Jamz-esque meets MC Hammer" sweats...deliciously awful) They would have had to have survived multiple 'consolidations'. (Consolidation is what is referred to as "I'm throwing your crap out,honey.") But the stuff that remained is showing signs of life. Those Wayfarers of yesteryear are now on fire on the Champs-elysee. As are the Izods, Polos and Fred Perry's. Packrats rejoice.
So after all these years of accumulating junk and tossing so many tons more, perhaps I'm entitled to keep my closet as is. Perhaps we all are allowed. Fashion is having a zero-effect on me, or perhaps I'm having a zero-effect on fashion.
So what's left?
Stories, trinkets and nick-naks.
Treasure.
No comments:
Post a Comment