10.16.2003 - 4:16 p.m.
The weather has become very October-y and Seattle-y lately, rain and wind and wet leaves everywhere. It's thrown me into a weird tailspin wardrobewise, I spend a good 20 minutes each morning staring blankly into my closet and cataloguing everything as either Too Summery (Old Navy sleeveless tops) or Too Wintery (Old Navy sweaters). The prospect of assembling clothes for the trip to the airport tomorrow, the plane rides, the days and nights in Austin, and the return trip has got me completely flatlined. I wish someone, maybe Queer Eye For Folks Who Are Shy, would come pack me up for JournalCon so I could feel more confident and less convinced I am going to be the Dorkiest Dork That Ever Dorked.
It's sad that practically every clothing item I own is from Old Navy, really. I can't help it, the shit is cheap. For the most part, it all fits fairly well, too. But it IS cheap in every sense, things fray and fade and chronically wrinkle and none of it is actually fashionable. Sometimes I really don't care about these things - today, for instance, I'm wearing Old Navy jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt that I threw a polar fleece over and screw it, no one sees me any more in my hole-in-the-wall office so I could probably wear a bathrobe to work and be fine.
There are occasions, though, where I can see the value in having something to wear that doesn't have a slogan screenprinted across the chest. The thing is, I'm hopeless at shopping. I mean I have no sense of style whatsoever. That's why Old Navy rules - whatever you buy, it won't be stylish, exactly, but you know it will be acceptable in that lukewarm mass-market Gappy sort of way.
So I've been giving some thought to the concept of a personal shopper. I mean the kind that works in Nordstrom's or whatever and is all official and picks out outfits for you. Someone whose job it is to be aware of trends and what styles look flattering and all that happy crappy.
I am lounging in the dressing room, while an efficient woman with sleek dark shining hair hands an armful of clothes to me. All are in my size. Everything is fitted and slenderizing and nothing is 100% cotton. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and admire my latest ensemble. Metria, for that is her name, nods approvingly. "Eet ess mahhveluss on choo," she says, in her mysterious accent. I smile, and take a sip from the ice-cold Grey Goose martini that is handed to me.
Ok, fine, maybe it won't be like that. I'm just saying, there's nothing wrong with hiring someone to help you do the things you suck at. That is why I do not service my own car, poke pap smear Q-tips in my own girlie bits, or clean the flue of my own chimney, and yes I recognize those examples seem to share a vaguely disturbing theme that we will quickly leave behind by dumping vats of words into this paragraph until the urge to scrub with bleach is gone, gone, gone and we can move on to safer less ishy topics like for instance JB and I saw A Mighty Wind Tuesday night and now neither one of us can stop saying "Wha' Happened?"
I am leaving for the airport tomorrow morning at 4-freaking-thirty AM. I plan to do as much as possible tonight, including washing and blow-drying my hair, to minimize the activities I will have to do after the alarm goes off when I will be stumbling around like a tequila-soaked zombie. If you're going to Austin, I'll be the yawning bedhead girl with the tacky clothes. Whee!
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comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004