Ode To My Clothes
So, a few things. First of all, I’m done losing weight, I think. I think I’m good where I am–I really don’t want and/or need to be any thinner, and since I’ve started running again, the rest of whatever is ailing me will work itself out. Am I giving up on watching what I eat? Hell to the no, but at this point, I’m not willing to kill myself for a shape that isn’t sustainable without a whole lot of torture and habits that border on the unhealthy. So I’m mostly sticking with a diet that is loosely based on Weight Watchers, and I’m not canceling it, because tracking what I eat in their little point system makes me happy, and I don’t know why.
That being said, I weigh 140 lbs., which is not a small amount in most people’s eyes, and I’m good with that–I’m 5’7”. It’s a healthy weight, and I say that because for me, that’s “skinny.” I don’t have a small frame, though I’m not horse-like or anything, I’m just not teeny-tiny and/or particularly delicate. I have hips, and they’re sticking around, and I like it like that. I hate that skinny is supposed to mean 125 lbs or less. Hate. Because for many people, that would be downright dangerous. Also, I am wearing clothes that are anywhere from a 6 to a 10, and I’m okay with that, too. Mostly, I’m an 8, which is what, a 10 in normal sizes, before vanity sizing took over the universe? I’m perfectly happy as an 8.
Incidentally, if you recall that I lost 25 lbs., that means I weighed roughly 165 lbs. at my heaviest, which is A WHOLE FREAKING LOT and is actually WHALE-LIKE on my medium-ish frame. I still don’t know how that happened, or how I let it happen, but honestly, never again, unless I’m carrying another PERSON in there. I regret, actually, not taking “before” pictures, because Jesus, I was busting out of all of my clothes, now that I think about it.
Clothes. This means, by the way, that I’ve had to–or should–buy a few things, because some things are falling off of me. Even more terrifying, however, is that some things still fit me, which means that oh my holy GOD, I should not have been wearing them 25 lbs heavier. No wonder I couldn’t keep my zippers up. The necessary shopping also points out a fact of my life: I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to fashion, and that’s not an exaggeration. I mean, I HAVE NO IDEA. My idea of “put together” is wearing a belt with my Threadless t-shirt and jeans, thankyouverymuch. I keep it simple, and by simple, I mean, I wear khaki, black and white in astonishing abundance, in clean lines. The only updates I really make are to cuts and silhouettes, and even those are done when absolutely necessary, i.e., when I realize that I’m wearing pants that were made well before the low-rise revolution and are actually impinging on my ability to move my arms.
(Okay, it’s not THAT bad. I don’t think. I mean, my pants are at least in a cut from this decade. I’m not sure…I mean, I look basically okay most days, just not particularly spiffy and/or cutting edge. I hope. My point is, I don’t go running out because trapeze skirts are suddenly in, because I’m totally good with the A-lines I have.)
Let’s look at yesterday’s flutter-sleeve incident as evidence, which is still drawing guffaws, as I was greeted this evening with more court jester jokes and further dissection of my mock-hairy armpits. Fashion risks are clearly not my forte, and I can’t even begin to tell you the first thing about how to wear a shoe that is not a) simple; and b) black or maybe brown, if I’m feeling really frisky. Preferably, the shoe is either of the fashion-sneaker variety (Pumas! Vans! Airwalks!) or Reefs. Oh Reef, how I love thee! This lack of shoe knowledge is despite my friends’ best efforts at assistance, including a complete red shoe TUTORIAL by my friend Amy.
It’s worth noting that today I bought my riskiest pair of shoes ever, and they are–wait for it–black patent leather ballet slippers. And despite their blackness, I have no idea what to wear with them. Zero.
I’m not sure how I feel about this, honestly. On the one hand, I think that I could really use some sort of assistance, because it would be nice to wear something other than Threadless Ts, jeans, and skirts–casual skirts, that is, the kind that go swimmingly with t-shirts. (Because I do not wear shorts, you see. No no. No shorts. Ever. Ahem.) On the other hand, I mostly don’t care, and that’s the sad truth. I mean, I care in the sense that I want to look nice, and despite my tendencies towards simplicity, I usually do, or at least I CAN if I have to. And I wear make-up every day and blow-dry my hair. Oh and I wear earrings, which is–well, that’s risky, isn’t it? EARRINGS. Someone give me a cookie.
The thing is, I can’t decide if this lack of concern is a by-product of my life, or if I’ve built my life around being casual, or both. I work in a super-casual environment where no one flinches if I wear Reefs, and I’m turned off by environments that are particularly formal. I rarely go anywhere that requires anything fancier than a skirt and maybe some (very simple) heels, and that is AT MY FANCIEST EVER OH MY GOD. I am a homebody in the truest sense. I like getting take-out and reading and watching movies. I like hanging with friends in super-casual places, and I hate anything too fussy, and the last thing on earth I feel like doing is messing with what I’m wearing–it’s just not a priority for me. And honestly, no matter how much money I’ve made in my life, I have never made spending money on clothes any sort of…well, priority is the word, yet again.
What I’m mixed about is this: I hate that to some, this implies that I have no self-respect and/or don’t care about taking care of myself. Not true! I eat right, and I exercise, and I get pedicures and God knows, I get waxed, and I wear make-up and I do all that other stuff. I care. But when it comes to what I’m wearing, it’s just not that important to me, because I don’t put myself in situations where anything more than casual is really necessary. And while I love What Not to Wear, it really gets me when Stacy and Clinton cheer people for spending $500 on a pair of shoes, because IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN in my house. Ever. Never ever. Where would I WEAR $500 shoes? To the local Argentinian steakhouse, which has fabulous food, but also gleefully accepts my Reefs? My life just isn’t set up in a way that $500 shoes make any kind of sense, and I like it like that.
On the other hand (what are we on our third? Fourth? FIFTH, hand?), sometimes I think seriously dude, I need to grow up. I cannot realistically wear Threadless Ts for the rest of my life, I just can’t. I will not be 31 forever. And it would be NICE to know what to do with a pair of shoes that aren’t Reefs. It would. I’m not saying I’d do it every day, but it would save me from a lot of panic.
As usual, I’ve no idea where I’m going with this. Also, not that I’m assuming anyone will ask, but I’m hesitant to post a picture of what I look like now, because a) I don’t have any; b) I hate having my picture taken; c) I am weird about posting pictures, not because I care that you all see–I’m not particularly self-conscious about what I look like, nor do I resemble a troll, I mean, I’ve done it recently–it’s just that I always feel supremely uncomfortable posting pictures of myself, like I’m fishing or something, so I just don’t do it. It’s just one of those weird things that I’m wonky about. What’s odd is that I like seeing pictures of other people, but I feel like the world’s biggest dork when doing it myself, so I don’t, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be one of those people who does it with any regularity.
However, I maintain that the Flickr self-portrait phenomenon makes me feel like I’m sitting in a room full of naked people who are masturbating and I’m fully clothed, and I just want to DIE as fast as possible.
See? Told you. No idea where I’m going with any of this.
Happy Wednesday!
*Tori Amos
30 comments June 26th, 2007