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Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Fitting Room Fatigue

Showing signs of my age once again,
 for your delight and amusement. 

As I ponder how the world is changing, one of the things I notice most is how we dress, or rather, how rare it is to see anyone dressed UP.

I grew up in an era where we used the expressions Church Clothes and School Clothes and Play Clothes. There WAS a distinction and an unwritten handbook on what was socially acceptable fashion. The Who, the What, the Wear and the When.

Suits and ties for the guys. 
Belted slacks and tucked in shirts.

Dresses and skirts. 
Hose and Heels for the gals. 

For Church. For eating out at a restaurant. For weddings and funerals and family portraits. For Christmas Cards, dances, reunions etc.

Business casual did not exist for me, early on.

In fact, my first year of college, women were required to wear a dress to the evening meal. Teachers were not allowed to wear pants in the classroom. Many women wore hats to just about any event, even though, as I look back, the hats were hideous.

Ironic. So ironic that at the time of my Freshman year in college, the late 60’s, the mini-skirt was a fad. Emphasis on the word MINI. Yet the rules required us to wear skirts to class, while sitting down in them, was something of a contortionistic battle.

 Life changed over night. Everything seemed to change over night in the late 60’s. Sophomore year all bets were off. All dress codes rewritten. Bell bottoms and torn t-shirts in the conga line in the cafeteria at dinner hour. Pant suits in the classroom.

Hats OFF. Head scarves and bandanas ON and IN.

 60’s. 70’s. 80’s. 90’s

Through fads and trends and style changes, underneath disgusting shoulder pads and leisure suits, some rules remained in place. People not only noticed, but commented mercilessly, both out loud and under their breath, if one appeared in public, UNDER dressed. Businesses filled hiring manuals with clothing restrictions.

I would like to be able to tell you when the Earth shifted, and new norms came into play, but it was not a sudden and remarkable shift. It simply happened. Oh sure, someone got to be the first wise guy to photograph Wal-Mart shoppers and ridicule reared its ugly head. However, these days, when I look around me, I wonder when Church Clothes, and School Clothes and Play Clothes merged into…

Notice lately how most Wedding Invitations now have a footnote reminding invited guests…

Cocktail or Evening Wear

I received one recently and waltzed into my closet to see what might do for such an occasion. 


Which meant…a trip to the MALL.

To try on DRESSES.

Appropriate for a woman MY age.

I shun dressing rooms. You all know I tend to wear one or two or possibly three pairs of Reading Glasses to get a closer look at objects that are more than two inches away from my face.


No glasses allowed. Thank you very much.

I picked out over 20 dresses, and wriggled myself into each one, squinting at myself in the mirror, and resisting the urge to cry. I know I know I know it is against all fashion rules to wear hose at ANY age, but c’mon people, it’s tough to be that brave. However, floor length dresses for someone my age, make me look like Queen Elizabeth’s twin. All I need is a purse and shoes dyed to match.

Slightly under the knee. Just barely.

I am fed up. Ready to bolt and revolt, then offer myself one more option. The Department Upstairs that carries clothes for special occasions only.

Aggghh. Beads and bangles and lace and well, maybe that one might work. Head down and dismayed, I walk to the fitting room. As I raise my gaze, a young 20 Something dressed like an angel in an ivory delicacy, crosses my path, and I comment on how lovely she looks. I hear a snorting sound. It is her mother grinning from ear to ear…told you so… she says to her angelic daughter. She, the about to be married, I need a dress for the Rehearsal Dinner, daughter.

Mom and I share a look and she glances at the dress folded over my arm. Wedding? You too? I nod. Need help?, she inquires.

There isn’t enough help in the world to get me through this, I say.

But my dear friends, oh yes there is. Indeed, for the next hour and a half, friends, angel friends, have my back. One bride, three sisters, one Mom like me, and two saleswomen, launch into full assault. I try, I twirl, I zip and unzip, stand in front of the three way mirror and await the points from the judges. We are in this together. Wrong color, too long, too dowdy, on and on…until…

I walk out of the dressing room to…


I swear on my honor that this happened, and that I had tears in my eyes, as my new crew of fashionistas, gave me a 10!!

I can honestly tell you that I felt…Pretty

There were hugs all around with my new found friends, every age and size and shape, now bonded by Fitting Room Fatigue. I felt more than pretty. I felt blessed by the true kindness of strangers.

As I checked out, one of the saleswomen suggested I try a touch of self tanner, and perhaps a pair of black strappy heels.

Please remember that all good stories,
 may have an alternate ending.

A story about goodness and mercy, 
often ends as a cautionary tale.

On self-tanning.

I forgot to wash my hands and ended up with streaks of orange, between my fingers, like a webbed footed duck.

Oh and the strappy black shoes.

I grabbed a pair I had not worn for over a decade, and they literally disintegrated at the event, leaving a trail of rubber and leather all the way to the bathroom. I, luckily had a pair of flats in the car, and managed to hobble across the parking lot before too many noticed.

I wasn’t worried, as I was among friends. Older friends, not like my newly found friends in the fitting room. Older friends like me, who simply wanted to dance the night away, until our hips hurt. Some with their original hips and a few with Titanium replacements, holding one another in a conga line to Dancing Queen by Abba.

I am a lucky lucky woman.

Even without hose and heels.
 If you did not believe the disintegrating shoe segment…

Believe It!
Believe in the Kindness Of Strangers…
And a Decent Pair Of Shoes!!!

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Monday, May 22, 2017

Duck and Cover

I’ve been away too long from my Post. Absent without Leave. With no Mother’s hand written note to excuse my behavior. I took time out to attend a one man show. A closed door meeting. An executive directive to seek professional help. Serious counseling for my new found fear.

Fear Of Blogging

Tongue tied. Hog tied. All blocked up. Stuck. 
Nekked and Afeerd.

You watch it right? Like me? The series, Naked and Afraid, where seriously insane folks take off their clothes and enter a distant jungle empty handed, to face 21 days in the wilderness. 

Each episode begins with up close and personal interviews with poisonous species, animals and plants. Close up footage of putrid green sludge pools disguised as potable water. Bare feet scrabbling over razor like shards of rock, dotted with thorny needles, fire ants and stinging nettles.

I’m okay with the panoramas of nature undisturbed by man. I, instead, am disturbed, by the backsides of these poor souls covered with hundreds, no, thousands of insect bites. What were they thinking? What are they doing? What possesses any one with a reasonable mind to expose themselves to these extreme conditions?

Oh I see. A challenge. A personal double dare ya to Fear. A resolute climb to walk the wire without a net. Maybe a fire starter or a hatchet to cut through the brush, but that’s all folks. Naked and Afraid, each contestant starts in exactly the same place. Skills in survival matter little when this is not what it seems.

This is not a challenge of skill. It is a battle of will

The will to survive.

Blogging these days can be almost as dangerous as traveling naked through uncharted territory. I know because I have been hiding beneath a pile of research into acceptable blogging behavior. How not to cause offense. How it be witty and wise while using the proper pronouns, the politically correct jargon. How to have a point of view that is exactly, and I mean exactly, the same as my neighbor, a stranger, or a friend. 

How to keep my head above water with out using too much or damaging the environment. 

Problem. There are crocodiles in the water, parasites in the streams, blood thirsty insects buzzing through the air, snakes slithering along the branches, not to mention all those indistinguishable screeches in the night, when all you want is a good night’s sleep.


First of all, I am an older broad, and the sight of me wandering sans skivvies, would frighten anyone. So that’s out. My survival skills are much more focused, as I am aging faster by the minute. My days of camping are long past their sell date, as I prefer to sleep in a bed with a book, and a flashlight. Indoors. Away from predators. Predators focused on differences of opinion and indiscriminate pronouns.


Here I am. Facing my fears. I like to leave a typo or two in each of my blogs, as homage to the non-skimmers, and as a clever pause tool for those in a rush. I want to catch their breath, not mine.

When the red pen gang saddle up to ride the page, if I am lucky, while they are huddled up, mid-page searching for Waldo, suspended by their own suspenders, they just might find me instead. Hand on heart, yellow wellies to protect my feet, extending a simple and heartfelt invitation to come into the garden and sit for awhile. Many a mistake or error in our ways, often lead us to exactly where we belong.

Humans in the midst of humanity.


It is better to fail spectacularly, 
than to fail by not even trying.

I have missed you. 

I hope you have missed me.

You do not have to be Naked.

You need not be Afraid.

I have a box of matches, 
flashlights and gallons of bug spray.

Because in the Garden, everyone survives. 
In fact, they thrive.

These are the only ducks you need to worry about.

 I will provide the cover.

A good pair of garden gloves and yellow wellies.

See you next week.

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