I love clothes. Whether it’s from Anthropology, Sundance, Walmart, or the thrift shop, it doesn’t matter. I enjoy mixing styles and choosing colors that suit me. I’m not so interested in what anybody else is wearing out there, but I have to admit I’m not as courageous as my daughter Brett. She wins the prize for giving her mother most of her gray hair. Her creative fashion genius was always in high gear and over the top.
For instance, in high school Brett once cut a neck-hole in a black plastic bag, belted it and wore it to high school one day.
First good thing. They must not have had any dress code because I don’t ever remember getting a call from the principal to come and get her.
Second good thing. My main worry was that if anyone lit a match near her she would go up in flames. They didn’t.
Whether it is a positive thing or not, I have always allowed my children to follow their own fashion feelings. I have tongue scars to prove it, silently watching my children morph into and out of teenage clothing trends. I hyperventilated for years watching them go out the door wanting to get a large hook or straight jacket and pull them back in. Especially the girls. Brett loved crazy hairdos and outfits. Alison loved crazy hats. The things she put on her head, were remarkable. Hats of every shape and size and color that sometimes made her look like a female version of Bob Denver on Gilligan’s Island.
My son escaped the male ‘fashionitis’ because he was always in either a school or Boy Scout uniform. His craze was rock icon T-shirts. Jeans and T-shirts. His obsession was his guitar.
All of these memories came about as today I am wearing a pair of linen pants that I got at the GAP – maybe 17 years ago. They are my favorite pants and they are in a style that wouldn’t be caught dead in a GAP store today. They are beige and the linen is worn so thin that by now it’s like fine Egyptian linen and the wide pant legs are frayed from being tortured for years by ground-sliding at the hem. But I absolutely love these pants. The older I get the shorter I get and the more punishment these poor hems go through. Whenever I want to feel comfortable or I can’t think of anything else to wear, I throw on these pants and I’m a happy woman. Every time I throw them into the laundry I pray that they don’t die. These pants are my security blanket and a link to my younger days.
I remember the last time I saw my son he was wearing a pair of jeans with holes everywhere. I don’t know how they were staying on his torso.
“Emerson,” I said, “those things are falling apart!”
“But, Mother, they’re my favorite pair of jeans.”
And again, I had to bite my tongue, but I also had to laugh at myself thinking about my raggedy linen pants from the GAP waiting for me at home. Those thread-bore pants that are such a part of my “chicken-soup-for-the-soul comfort threds”.
Copyright Sandra Hart 2015. All rights reserved.