One of the main objectives of the trip was the purchase of clothing to wear to formal events. For this purpose I put myself into the capable hands of Mark Mitchell, an individual who has both the style and the patience for such a daunting task.
Because, you see, I am afraid of the lady stores.
I warned him ahead of time that I am not a good candidate for a Pygmalion makeover. There are too many hindrances: my fixation about colors, my abhorrence of certain pattern cuts, the fact that most clothing hurts my neck.
And, beyond all those that we might classify as perhaps psychological, there is of course my figure to contend with. Mark refers to my Legendary Milky White Bosom (LMWB) with glee but the fact is that I have an hourglass shape that hasn’t been fashionable in a couple of decades.
Our first stop was a frightening yet fascinating poke through the racks at Barney’s. The sales clerk and Mark picked out dozens of outfits for me to try on, all of which were perhaps beautiful – on other people. I rejected each mostly on the fit; even Mark had to agree by the end that finding the right thing is a difficult proposition.
If it fits everywhere else I can’t even get the top buttons near each other let alone fastened. And why would you spend real money on clothes just to hack them up again? It would be more practical (though less timely) to have things made from scratch. If I were that sort of person.
A stop at Betsey Johnson was much more promising, and there were a few nifty dresses I might have been interested in…. if they’d been symmetrical. Or made of something other than plaid terrycloth.
Onward to lunch, where I told one of my favorite stories about a wedding and we chatted and rested before venturing into what would consume the rest of the day: Nordstrom.
Mark pulled me along in his wake, efficiently sorting through the racks, rejecting most of the garments but picking out a few dozen carefully vetted choices. By the end of the six hours (yes, six) I was even excited and helping. At the very end my attention was drawn by a jacket that seemed to call my name from a far wall. Mark pointed out that it wasn’t on my list of needs but I grabbed it anyway and headed to the changing room.
I tried the jacket on first and it must have been made for me; I don’t know who else would wear it.
The other garments required a demoralizing long struggle with zippers and clasps and yielded no results. Until the very end, when the last dress slipped over my head and was…. perfect.
Mark has the great distinction of finding my first ever grown-up dress, and persuading me that I had to buy it. I will be in his debt forever.
