After the surgery five years ago I was left with several asymmetrical scars dictating:
- I could not wear clothes that came into contact with the incisions.
-yet-
- I did not own any clothes that did not come into contact with the incisions.
This meant I had to shuffle around in shapeless ratty yoga pants and tshirts, but also could not wear tights – oh no!
I did not own socks, nor would I ever consider wearing that category of garment unless a major illness dictated the choice.
That week I went and bought my first and last pair of the decade, and they have valiantly persevered, traveling with me across cities, states, and continents as early morning foot protection gear- until this week, when they rapidly became more hole than hosiery.
Four days ago I ventured forth and bought a replacement set of knitted niceness, but it was a perilous process. Mark Mitchell can attest that I do not enjoy shopping; in fact, the experience takes on nightmare proportions, for me and everyone else who has to participate.
Heck, I don’t even like bookstores let alone the rest of the options on offer!
Yet I persevered, then retired in a state of exhaustion.
Then guess what – just guess? Yeah, I knew you saw this one coming…. my beloved and only skirt died.
What is actually worse than shopping for a skirt? I do not know. Maybe the jokes made by friends about chasing skirt. Regardless, my cupboards yielded only a poplin pinstripe option, and you know, that kind of thing is not exactly suitable for people who muck around with boat engines and bicycles on muddy riverbanks.
Today I trudged around the city in a desultory fashion and finally, after long and painful effort, found a reasonable plain option that fits – hurray!
Except it was raining, and I was wearing the hat bought in a moment of desperation in Seattle three years ago with Jeffrey, when we dashed into a haberdashery to escape a rainstorm.
The new skirt is quite nice – but it also has buttons up the front and pockets at each hip. Way too Sixteen Candles.
What next – pastels??