Fashion Forward

Clad in Star Wars finest - Vintage Hand-Me-Up BB8 TShirt.
Not pictured{Black pants, flowered Skechers, no socks, dog making fun.)

I hoped that by the time I reached the seasoned age of 65, I would have plucked the fruits of wisdom, experience, and knowledge from the Tree of Life. Instead, what I have plucked is a situation where a husband who can’t tell stripes from plaid is in charge of my wardrobe. How hard can it be to see if the lines cross?

Remember when Daddy dressed the kids and their teacher thought they’d run away from home? It’s like that, but with the added adventure of foundation garments.

I’m not man bashing. I’m fortunate to have a husband who has taken over every household chore now that walking to the bathroom has turned into an Olympic event for me. He’s not only mastered all of my secret recipes, he has cracked every excuse I ever invented for ordering pizza instead of peeling potatoes.

The trouble comes when I need to wear matching clothes for, say, a trip to the specialist of the day. The time has come when I collect doctors like a lumberjack collects splinters. Neurologist, orthopedist, cardiologist--I’m looking for two more ists to make a full house. Each one wants to feel my ankles and tell me to drink more water. I considered contacting Aquaman for a consultation, but Jason Momoa thwarted that plan when he took out the restraining order.

I don’t mind the clothes adventures as much as the comments from passers by when we go out. Here in the South, we have a saying, Bless Your Heart, that means everything from “I’m sorry to hear about your mama,” to  “dumb as a sack of hammers.” I’ve been blessed enough times in the past year to earn me the favored spot in grandaddy’s toolbox.

Getting ready for a doctor’s appointment, I allow an extra 4-6 weeks to allow for searching for clothes that have got lost in the laundry or have been donated to charity due to unfortunate bleach or spaghetti sauce incidents.

The following interaction may or may not be true:

Bill: “How about these pants?”

Fashion Victim: “They’re yours.”

Bill: “That’s good. Everything goes with khaki.”

FV: “And they’ve got those handy cargo pockets to hide problem thighs.”

I won’t go into the difference between navy and black (there is none) or socks that match (they don’t) and have sacrificed all claim to jewelry that can’t be clamped on or stuck on with adhesive. Two-sided tape is no longer a luxury.

Shopping online, I purchased a navy and white striped top that could be worn with any of the ten pairs of navy blue pants hanging in my closet at any given time. Last Tuesday I sallied forth to the doctor in a black and tan shirt, blue pants, and school bus yellow socks festooned with pictures of racoons.

The receptionist smiled sweetly and spoke.

“Bless your heart.”

That’s it. No more doctor trips for me. But when you call for Emergency Responders, tell them to bring extra socks.