Confuzzled's Sense of Fashion

I've been tempted before to write a post about my own sense of snow, but it would be short: my right elbow and my left ankle twinge before any type of storm and they throb when it's going to snow.  End of story.  They are as reliable as Babette's ankles.  (And to all who understood that reference, I applaud you.)

 

Anyway, I thought I would write about my sense of fashion instead.  Alas, I have no pictures.  And though I know a picture is worth a thousand words, I'll do my best to draw a picture of myself for you verbally.  In the course of the week, I appear to be a "with it" sort of person; Monday through Thursday, I look like a professional.  If my socks are going to be visible, they coordinate with my pants and my shoes.

 

If my socks will be invisible--not in the Harry Potter sense, but rather in the sense they will be hidden under what my co-worker calls my "hooker boots"--I don't care if my socks match anything at all.  After all, they're hidden under boots all day.  Besides, it gives me secret delight to wear socks that are bright blue with fuzzy little yellow chickens on them and "Chicks rule" scribbled all over them in black print underneath my boots when I'm wearing them with a suit.  It's my own small way of stickin' it to the man, I guess.

 

If I had a choice, I would spend the entirety of my winters in hooded sweatshirts and jeans.  Summers--t-shirts and jeans.  Polo shirts when I felt like dressing up a smidgen.  Dresses--never.  Socks and shoes--what are those?  (My whole family, except my dad, is somehow wired to go around barefoot during the summers and stocking-footed in the winter.  We don't believe in shoes.  And we especially don't believe in shoes that, while cute, are uncomfortable.)

 

My mom, I know, laments my dress style.  She cringes if I elect to wear a pair of quirky socks with my jeans instead of regular-human-being socks.  When my dad re-gifted a pair of singing Christmas songs he'd received at work to me, my mom glared at him as I pulled them on.  (I was sixteen at the time, and some would argue I should have known better.  But I was tickled pink to have singing socks!)

 

She always disapproves of anything I buy that she thinks is trendy.  Good clothes last, regardless of the current fashions.  White sweaters should not be worn with green t-shirts.  T-shirts with writing on them are not only kitschy, they're downright abominable--and also distracting.  Pale people should not wear orange.  (So far, that's one of the few of her dictums I've agreed with.  Me in orange?  A downright ghastly sight.)  Shorts should not be allowed unless legs are properly tanned.  Only ragamuffins wear pants that have a hole in the knees.

 

I should grant she taught me important things about buying clothes: always find a place in the dressing room to imitate sitting down in a skirt to see just how high it rides.  Bend over in every way possible to make sure a shirt's neckline is not something you would be uncomfortable worth.  Walk up and down the aisles in those shoes before you buy them just to make sure they won't be too hard to break in.

 

These days, she's tickled when she gets a chance to have a hand in dressing me.  At 23, I've grown set in my ways.  I don't care if my socks coordinate with my pants and shoes if I'm not at work.  If a pair of pants still fits and they have a hole in the knee, who cares?  Nobody at Smith's . . .

 

She was excited this morning to loan me socks.  I slept at their house last night, and I neglected to stuff a pair of socks in my backpack.  She poked her head out of her room this morning to ask what I was wearing.  (It's a casual Friday; it's a given I'm wearing a hoodie and jeans)  "Pink."

 

She rolled her eyes.  "What color are your pants?  Everyone knows you match your socks to your pants and not your shirts."

 

"Jeans, Mom.  It's Friday, I'm wearing jeans."

 

She threw some navy blue socks down the hall.  Then she emerged all the way.  "Wait," she said, "what color are your shoes?"

 

"Black."

 

A small intake of breath.  "But you can't wear navy socks with black shoes.  Especially because those have flecks of white." (Scandal most fashionably foul!)

 

She went back, rummaged through a door, and emerged triumphant with socks that would coordinate with my shoes and my socks.  I could tell by the look on her face that she felt I was better dressed than average--purely because of a pair of coordinated socks.

 

So there you have it--even though I'm a college graduate and a working professional, my mother still has little to no confidence that I can dress myself.