I was driving down Rt 70 the other day taking someone somewhere and happened to glance over to my right at a women's clothes store and the sign in front that revealed the nature of its products. Wear.
There are times in my life, moments usually, when I have an epiphany about myself, when I get a little window into my own soul, or in this case, mental abnormalities and quirks, and this was one of those split seconds. I do not like " _____ wear." The last place I want to go is a store that has ____wear for ladies. I don't want to wear loungewear. Oh, put me out of my misery now rather than give me a matching silky salmon-colored "outfit" for lounging. Yes, I lounge. No, I don't call it that and absolutely no, would I ever buy an outfit to do it.
This is what "loungewear" makes my mind envision. I'm in a long, loose flouncy outfit with pants that bell slightly at the ankle. When I walk in these pants my thighs swish effortlessly, the silkiness. I hide the urge to run, hop and slide across the hardwood floors on my bottom. I couldn't anyway because of the martini and the long cigarette in the elegant holder I'm carrying in my manicured fingers. The top is just like the bottoms, slippery, belled at the sleeves, deep neckline that precludes much moving besides sidling over to the front window to wistfully watch the people pass and mourn something or other. See? It's all around depressing without even mentioning words like caftan and muu muu.
Then there's "actionwear." I suppose I can handle this term if I'm standing in a Dick's or a Sports Emporium, but at a ladies shop? That sells "loungewear"? Who are they fooling? Actionwear. For when the athlete in you decides it's time to get up from that couch, dump your martini in the wet bar, snuff out that cigarette and walk down to the news stand to get the paper...
Swimwear is a subcategory of actionwear right along with those old rubber bathing caps with big colorful floppy flowers. When outfitted in swimwear, a lady glides gently up the pool on her side and it's almost spooky how she gets from one end to the other without actually moving.
Intimate apparel, though devoid of the word "wear" also falls within my "No" category. It's not that I wouldn't, couldn't, don't, haven't or shan't wear intimate apparel, it's just that I will not call it that. And anyone who says to me, hey I like your intimate apparel will see it covered with jeans and an IU sweatshirt in short order.
The bane of my young girl existence: Evening wear
Opulent though it may be - I don't wanna. My mother still remembers searching for prom and Christmas dance dresses with me. It is one of the more painful memories she has of my youth ranking up there with my friends habits of breaking bones on our property and our FBI trained German Shepard King attacking the neighbors. I'm going to throw in the time that Dad cut down a tree and knocked the power out on the block during a Superbowl. Let's see. I don't like the word "formal" much either. I bought my wedding dress at a Laura Ashley store with a 25% off coupon. It was from their wedding dress line, but it wasn't lace and slippery and poofy and lofty and veily. It was just pretty and I liked it. Now, I do want to say that I've worn many gowns in my life and may even have enjoyed wearing them. I just dread the thought of sifting through scads of "evening wear" slipping off the hanger, stuffing the ruffles back into the rack, not being able to tell what's the front, what's the back, discussion of colors and hues Is it chartreuse or burgundy, peach or mint? The whole entire process from humble beginning to glamorous end can be so, so, so wrong for me.
It makes me want to put on loungewear, grab a cig and a martini and gaze out the window at the lucky fellow passing in leather boots and burlap jacket.
And that is what I learned about myself last week on the highway passing a boutique of women's apparel. Tune in next week when we discuss my visceral reaction to any "____City" stores.