‘Here come the
muttons.’
A comment like
this can only come from the next generation. Though also unattached on Valentine’s day, these women in their twenties
are so dazzled by their own youth they can’t see how close they are to their
own criticism.
Why shouldn’t
anyone wear what they want, if it makes them feel happy and comfortable? Why
should we assume desperation by the fine lines of a tailor’s thread? It seems
wasteful to eradicate a wardrobe once you hit 40 – to say ‘you’re done with these – it’s all twin sets
and pearls now, no more sequins, nothing sheer – except your tights, love.’
That will be me
too one day – and
sooner than I think, if I want to avoid the harshest words. Already I pick
through my wardrobe and decry the low-cut dress, say no to the glitter, and
provide a rigorous undercoat if lace is on the agenda. I’m conscious of dressing for the next box on the checklist. I want to be
ahead of time – the idea
of casual insults from strangers does that to me.
I recently
worked my way through my wardrobe, failing to discard anything but the most
threadbare items, and holding tightly to the summer dresses, the shorts that
barely fit, the spaghetti straps. I want to wear them all again – if only the
diet would work, or the right invite would fall through the door. All these conditional
circumstances, that’s what I tell myself as the darkened
wardrobe shelters these items from the sun, from dust, from use. This wardrobe also
shelters my memories, woven into the fabric they house.
I pull out one
of my favourite dresses, green with a halter neck
and nipped-in waist. I wore this a few times, but one day in particular stands
out. It was hot, scorching, and I’d lathered sun
cream on for several sticky minutes while I pondered what to wear. I was going
for lunch with someone I’d fallen hard for, and we were going
to meet an old friend of his and his wife. I wanted to make a good impression,
and there were several fail-safe choices I could have picked, but at the last
moment my hand clasped the cool green cotton and the decision was made. I
stepped into the fabric (definitely right for the heat), pulled the full skirt
over my hips and zipped up the body, folding myself into the layers of green. It was going to be a good day.
He picked me up
an hour later. We decided we’d walk to lunch along the riverbank,
build up an appetite. I was wearing sandals, a woody brown with a cork heel
that started out as a comfortable choice that perfectly complemented my dress,
and quickly shifted to ill-advised decision dictated by fashion as we stumbled
along the overgrown path. My feet began to ache, each step kindling a blister
to life. He hadn’t noticed my shoes. By the time we arrived at lunch my hair
hung limp in the heat, my dress was creased with the humidity, my feet burned
and my face flushed pink. But once we sat down in the shade and ordered a cool
glass of water and a chilled white wine, order restored itself – I sat up straight, leaned intently
into conversations… felt
the future lay stones before me. Regardless of my blistered feet, I’d chosen just the right thing to wear, because I loved it so much and it
made me happy. He hadn’t seen the choices I made or my dishevelled appearance after the walk, but those green
threads hold my memories tight in their grasp.
Should I declare
this dress a no-go zone now that I’m a
thirty-something and not a twenty-something? I hardly see why, the future that
pulled at the hem of that dress is my life now. I know that one day, perhaps
soon, I might not feel I’m presenting my best self in this
dress. But right now, when cruelty could knock on my door any day, I feel
reluctant to cave in to this cat-called deadline; I think there’s a bit more life in these threads. Maybe I’ll let time catch me
after all.
