My sister is a fashionista. I rebel. I hate to shop. I do not want to be a puppet of the clothing industry. Then I get invited to go somewhere. Somewhere nice, with nice people. It would be fun. Except the classic outfit I bought ten years ago with the aid of a personal shopper, the knit sweater set and skirt I could wear anywhere, forever, is clearly dated.
I could declare myself antisocial. Which would make me just like my mother. I rebel. I do not want to lock my doors, close the curtains, and eat a bowl of cereal for supper at 6 p.m. I am not yet friendless. In order to participate in life–instead of just writing about it–I have to go shopping.
It’s not true that I never shop. I shop the catalogs that overflow my mailbox. I browse the pro shop at every country club where I play tennis. And I swing through the athletic wear department at Wal-Mart. My chest of drawers boasts a complete wardrobe of swimsuits. My closet is lined with tennis skirts and tops, some of them inappropriately ruffled for my age. I have an astounding variety of white tank tops and black yoga pants.
But dread overshadows non-athletic events. I not only have to give up writing time for the DAR luncheon or a Junior League Book Club meeting (don’t forget the travel time) I have to shop for something to wear. The longer I stay away from the stores, the more deep-rooted my phobia becomes.
In my dream world, the one in which I’m a successful author with
a staff a retinue an entourage, one of the beloved minions delivers the perfect ensemble, fresh and ready to wear, whenever I need to greet the public.
MINION! Where are you? I need to write, but I’m stressed about what to wear next week.