Sexy and Sophisticated

My mother has always absolutely detested clothing shopping.  She had a personal shopper at Mark Shale who chose her work clothes, brought them to be tailored, and then had them delivered to the house.  Everything else was either bought via a catalog (flowing and either draw-string or elastic waisted so as not to have to be altered or tried on) or thrown in the cart wherever she happened to be to buying dishwashing fluid, printer paper, and Miracle Grow.  So, by the age of eight, I was well versed in flipping through the pages of L.L. Bean, Lands End, and J. Crew (Why yes, in fact, I am from the Midwest.  Why do you ask?), dialing a 1-800 number, and ordering my entire wardrobe.  Too small?  Send it back.  Too big?  Wait until it fits.  And….done.  No shopping required.

My parents were divorced, and when I saw my dad every other weekend, we would head to the mall.  Dad was a very successful, and therefore very busy, entrepreneur. He often sent my brother and I off to shop while he made business calls on the pay phone (This was during the Mesozoic era, so phones were either stuck to the wall or-rarely-stuck to the car).  When he finished his calls, we would run him around to the stores that housed the items we had decided we would die without.  So, for my brother, we ALWAYS ended up in Walden books.  He is now a rocket surgeon.  For me it was either Spencer Gifts (who DOESN’T want rubber poo?) or Merry Go Round. I am not a rocket surgeon.

Once in 1984, I found the most absolutely amazing parachute pants that had zippers all over them.  I just absolutely had to have those pants or I might die.  I mean, they were SO Michael Jackson.  I grabbed Dad by the hand, dragged him to the store (which was playing the BEST music ever.  “Come on feel the noise! Girls rock the boys!”), threw on the red pair, burst forth from the changing room, and said, “How do I look???”  Dad replied, “You look cute, Hon.”  My heart dropped, my face sank, and I retreated to the changing room.  Then I came out in the black pair, asked the same question, and got the same response.  At that point, I just put back on my black stirrup pants, yellow turtle neck, red sweater, and Kangaroo tennis shoes, dropped, my chin to my chest, and sulked out of the store.  Dad stopped me and asked, “Heather, I really liked those pants.  When you try things on, how do you want them to make you look?”  I choked in a deep breath, kept my chin tucked but lifted my 9 year-old eyes and replied, “Sexy and sophisticated.”  Dad stuttered a bit and said quietly and uncomfortably, “Uh, yeah, that’s what those did, Phooey” (my other nickname, due to my obsession with the karate dog cartoon Hong Kong Phooey). 

I sprinted back into the store, grabbed not only the red and black pairs, but also the grey for good measure, and threw all three on the counter.  It was a good day, and my love of shopping was born.  The mall could make me not only sexy but ALSO sophisticated.  (Dad even said so.) Hot damn. I was a fan.

This is pretty much exactly what I look like.

How did Mom not know how awesome this was?  I spent the next 26 years admiring myself in the mirrors of every women’s clothing store in every mall I could find.  Then, when I finally got TOO sexy and TOO sophisticated for mall shopping, I found my way to boutiques, some of which had lovely, helpful sales associates who brought me gorgeous little white wines to sip while I perused their apparel.  My wardrobe thrived, my bank account dwindled, and damn I looked good.  No, I didn’t just look good. I looked sexy, and I looked sophisticated. 

And then ….I reproduced, and I finally understood.  Good God, I don’t even want to go to the grocery store anymore.  “I want a popsicle!  I want another popsicle!  I want the one you gave HIM!  I got the yucky one!  I need a motorcycle!  No, I need the RED motorcycle!”  Clothing shopping is just not going to happen.  Oh, and I also no longer see the beauty in $220 blue jeans.  Basically I’m an old fuddy duddy.  It’s sort of my new thing.  None of the work I do requires any particular sort of wardrobe (other than the fact that it has to be washable and should absolutely never require ironing), so there’s no need for Mark Shale.  Nope, I just think about the brands I used to wear ten years ago, guess what size I’d wear in them now, and order them from Ebay.  Too small? Give them to Goodwill.  Too big? Give them to Goodwill. And…done.  No shopping required.

 

I was recently spending the afternoon with my two toddler boys and my friend who doesn’t yet have children.   Before I knew it, she had led us into a boutique with a lovely, helpful sales associate who offered me a gorgeous little white wine.  I suddenly envisioned one of the boys ripping a $175 t-shirt (adorned with an oh-so-witty phrase) off of its hanger, ripping it in half, and rubbing some disgusting fluid all over it before going on a 45 second rampage that would end up costing me $3,472.  I left before she got even halfway through complimenting me on my mom-jeans and offering to show me the perfect $300 blouse and belt to accompany them.

When I really feel like shopping, I go where I can buy printer paper, dishwashing fuild, and Miracle Grow.   But since Target also has toy motorcycles and popsicles, it’s all a bit worthless.  However, my friend did have an idea…

IF ONLY TARGET HAD A BAR, MY LIFE WOULD BE PERFECT.