I bought some clothes today and when I came home and laid them on my bed, I started laughing. Here is what I bought:
* Cute sandals befitting of my age
* A grey shirt - also very age appropriate
* A beige sweater that would be more appropriate on my 12 year old daughter
* A very large white shirt that I have no idea how I am going to look in it - but I am sure it looks better in my head than it will on my body
* 2 funny long t-shirts that I will probably never actually wear since I rarely wear t-shirts - also they have cute sayings on them which really are more appropriate for a 12 year old (these will likely end up in my daughter's closet)
* And a pair of Frye combat boots (silver no less)...
As I reviewed all of my purchases, I was struck with this question:
Who the fuck went shopping today?
It was completely apparent that I am not in touch with my age and stage of life. There were actual items laying on my bed that if someone else saw them they would say “oh, those are cute things for your daughter!”
I then had the courage to face my wardrobe - I flipped through the closeted items and was over come with the schizoprehenic nature of my closet. It is full of items that do not fit or match my current life station.
I have sexy dresses that I wouldn’t have worn when I was 20 let alone 50. I have boots that I have never worn because I have nothing to wear thigh high boots with and not feel ridiculous.
Looking at my closet, one is given an inkling that I have been battling a war within myself. A war of age and status and appropriateness and rebellion. As I stood there peering into my wardrobe, I was given a look into my psyche as well. There was my inner battle splayed over hangers. A middle aged woman who still has no real idea who she is. Or maybe the clothes reflect all the women she has been in her life:
the tom boy young girl’s athletic wear
the new wave/punk adolescent
the hip and scholarly young woman
the slutty college coed
the Ally McBeal newbie attorney
the mom attire
the middle aged single woman who is pretty sure she still has “it”
Quietly I realized that my wardrobe is this collection of all the women I have been in my life...and the recent acquisition of the Frye combat boots was a fitting tribute to my youth. I love the fact that I feel like I can bring those fuckers back at almost 50. I intend to rock them with mom jeans and a giant black sweater and large silver hooped earrings. I might even wear them with a scarf...fuck it!
I decided standing there in my underwear and oversized men’s sweatshirt that I loved my style or rather lack of it. I loved that my clothing reflected the internal battle that rages within. That I have not lost touch with who I am and where I came from. I loved that my closet is not full of 50 year old woman attire (whatever the fuck that is).
Maybe, just maybe, my closet reflects an integration of self. That there within the fabrics and textures lives all the very many women I have been, endured, survived and can, now finally, celebrate.
