Some days, I just don’t feel it. I don’t want to get out of bed/go to work/put a smile on my face. Usually, but not always, this happens on Monday. But it can strike at any time.
Whatever it is, I’m grumpy. Grouchy. Out of sorts. I find it difficult to muster the energy to get enthused about anything-
“Oh, please!” my Inner Bitch sneers. “There you go again with the kvetching. Who do you think you are, Anna Karenina? Pull up your big-girl panties and deal with it.”
As you can see, I can’t expect any sympathy from Ms B.
“What are you whining about this time?” she adds. “Was Grey’s Anatomy a repeat? Did you lose at Solitaire? Is your hairband too tight?”
“You are such a-”
“-bitch?” she finishes. “It’s my job. Deal with it.”
I decide to ignore her. I return to what I was doing – trying to choose an outfit to wear to work – and focus on the dispiriting array of clothing hanging before me.
There’s the red, three-quarter length sweater. Red is a great color on me. But it’s a little warm today, maybe just a little too warm for a sweater-
“Ya think? Put the sweaters away, sweetie – winter’s over. Why don’t you show some skin, for a change? Try a v-neck blouse and a shorter skirt. Wear heels instead of those boring flats. Live it up a little.”
“But I can’t look sexy at work,” I object. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Honey, you couldn’t be sexy if you tried. And did I say ‘sexy’? No, I didn’t. Feminine, sweetie, that’s what I’m talking about. Less Olive Oyl, more Jessica Rabbit.”
“Thanks for your sartorial expertise,” I say tightly, “but I’m a meetings facilitator, NOT a torch singer in some smoky, gin-filled club.”
“More’s the pity,” Ms B muttered.
“I have to dress practically,” I inform her, “and comfortably. Louboutins and plunging necklines just won’t cut it.”
Eventually I decide to compromise on a blue wrap dress and three-inch heels and head off to work, and I leave my Inner Bitch behind.
The day drags – it is Monday, after all – but at least it’s uneventful. I get quite a few compliments on the wrap dress and heels, and I find myself wondering if perhaps Ms B isn’t right. Have I sunk into a fashion slump? Am I downplaying my femininity in order to meet some outdated idea of appropriate corporate dressing, where girly = weak?
Or am I just too lazy to be bothered with my appearance?
A little of both, I decide. To my chagrin, I realise that maybe – just maybe – my Inner Bitch is – gasp! – right this time. I’ve fallen deep into a Fashion Rut.
The moment I walk through the front door that evening, she starts in on me. “I’m right, aren’t I?” she taunts. “You thought about what I said all day, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and yes,” I sigh. “I’m going shopping tomorrow. They’re having a sale at-”
“Not that dreary boutique you always go to!” she interrupts. “Let’s go to that new place, Girly Girl. We’ll get you some cropped trousers, and a couple of envelope clutches in bright red and yellow, and some wild, op-art printed minidresses (sixties is very NOW, you know), and you’ll need some new undies-”
“My undies are fine,” I say firmly. “And there’ll be NO op-art printed minidresses, either, thank you very much.”
She glares at me and rolls her eyes in distain, but remains mercifully silent on the subject as we head off to Girly Girl.
I decide on some floral-print cropped pants (“Very cute,” Ms B grudgingly admits), a few above-the-knee dresses, and a hot-pink envelope clutch.
Then I see it.
It’s a black, calf-length skirt paired with a red boatneck shirt. The skirt gently flares out; the shirt is a cashmere blend, soft beneath my fingers. “I want to try this on,” I tell the store clerk.
When I emerge from the dressing room a few minutes later, I twirl in front of the three-way mirror. “Well?” I ask my Inner Bitch, who’s been strangely silent. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” she echoes, scorn written on her face as she eyes my outfit. “I think you look like Olive Oyl… once again. Have I taught you nothing?”
I realize to my dismay that she’s right. In this black skirt and red shirt, I do look like Olive Oyl. I’ve fallen right back into the depths of my safe, boring, un-sexy fashion rut.
Oh, well, I console myself as I return to the dressing room and change back into my street clothes, at least Olive and I have one thing in common.
We’re both skinny. And that makes us at least a little bit fashionable, doesn’t it?
