Clothing

They say, if you want to be rich, don't take up with anything that has a mouth. I often think they should also say, don't take up with anything that wears clothing.

I have a difficult relationship with clothing. Part of the problem is historical: when I was five years old I was whisked across the country by my dad, who thought he was doing "the right thing." Five years old is when girls and boys get their gender identity fixed in place. I had just begun to play dressup in my mother's crinolines that hung in our basement - can't you just SEE those '50s dresses and their beautiful crinolines?!

But upon being removed from the family home, bereft of mother, I settled upon good old Dad as my role model. I learned to wash my face, once a day, that was that. To brush my hair in the morning and before I went to bed. And to put on whatever clothes got laid out for me. Once my grandma got into the picture, she took over - completely - and I was nineteen before I demanded the right to choose my own clothing. This is from my own closet and drawers mind you - I was twenty before I went to a store and choose something from off the rack!

So I did not experience the primping and wardrobe changes that most girls went through in this culture. The idea that I should, or even could, check my appearance in the mirror more than once a day was a foreign concept to me. I wore a lot of hand-me-downs and never really learned to take any particular joy in dressing up.

From time to time I would try. I did a lot of sewing, most of it rather badly. I was impatient with details like pressing, so what I did end up making was, for the most part, ill-shaped and ill-fitting. I liked it because I made it, and kept hoping that maybe the next thing would fit better, without actually laying out a different plan of action, like, for instance, measuring...

In between these "fits" of sewing I would lose patience altogether and go out to a store and buy something. So my wardrobe "grew" - much in the sense of a tumor or a wart, and with about as much elegance.

Fast forward to about eight years ago when I discovered "What Not to Wear" on tv. Stacey and Clinton, help me! I'm dying here! I don't have a clue!

I did manage to glean a few tips over the years: that a woman with my (full) figure should wear structured garments, (so I don't look like a shapeless blob) for instance. Not to put fancy things up high on my chest, since ruffles and what-not look better on flatter women than I. Much flatter than I.

Since around about that time I was in menopause, I also learned that I'm only truly comfortable in natural fibres. Man-made fibres made me sweat profusely, a very distasteful sensation, I assure you!

Well, I've had it. I want off. The world, the game, the fashion whirl. I'm tired of bras, even the goddess bras that fit me so well. I'm tired of matching colors, of trying to remember to wear some of my jewellery with certain outfits. I'm tired of layering, arranging, and tying. It's just not me.

If I lived in a warmer climate, I could easily become a nudist, or "naturist" as it's popular to call them nowadays. Isn't that funny - there's even a politically correct term for being nekked! Say - I wonder what nudists call the people who wear clothes? Fuzzies? No, wait, that's something else...

But I live in Canada, closer to the Arctic circle than the equator alas! So I'm openly declaring myself to be a pyjama-ist. Long underwear (men's, fyi) and a long-sleeved nightie on top. (You know why I wear men's long underwear? Because it's long enough and it's BIG enough. Men don't put up with uncomfortable clothes - it's a mystery to me why women do.)

I declare my pajama leanings. I want to wear my jammies to work. To go grocery shopping in. Why do I have to put on an uncomfortable set of somethings when I have this perfect pairing available? More of us should go to the supermarket in our jammies. Maybe we could bring world peace.