The Doctrine of Fashionism - Part 2

Fashionistas tend to espouse the philosophy that fashion is more about feeling glamorous than actually looking good. That philosophy has certainly dominated my own dress code, and apparently, I feel my best when I am dressed like a refugee taxi cab driver. Although they will deny it vehemently, my extreme disdain for the past-time of shopping can be traced to my childhood experiences with the two women who have contributed the most to my genetic make-up. From a very early age, I have held very strong opinions regarding the empowering abilities of my wardrobe. (My mother loves to tell the story of the year I insisted on wearing a long black cat tail that I had fished out of the dumpster behind a costume shop.) However, I am also a people pleaser at heart. I can’t stand it when people are displeased with me. This personal dogma can be very dangerous in the dressing room.

“Oh, that pant suit is absolutely adorable. You look so smart in it.”

“I feel like a complete dork. I don’t think I would ever wear it.”

“But why not?”

“How am I going to climb a fence in this? It doesn’t even fit.”

With visible expressions of disappointment, “It fits perfectly. Oh. Well. If you don’t like it, then…it’s just that you look so nice. But if you don’t value my opinion...tch.”

Guilt override. Nothing like a well placed ‘tch’. Then three months later “Why don’t you ever wear that pant suit?”

“Because I don’t like it. I never liked it.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

So these days, I shop alone. Even my best friends hate shopping with me. I am a very cranky shopper, and I truly pity the clerks that try to help me, but at least I don’t have to face them over Christmas Dinner when I am wearing pajama bottoms with purple tea pots and a bowling shirt that has “Bette” stitched across the front. Unfortunately, because clothes do eventually wear out and on occasion, I inexplicably gain 25 pounds, I am sometimes forced to make reparations to my wardrobe.

With the Christmas Party season in full swing, I recently decided that I needed a new dress to wear on a harbour dinner cruise hosted by Kevin’s company. I have not bought a new dress since August 2006 ($20 at Ross), and while I can still get it zipped, I felt sorry for the seams that were clearly straining against my mid section. Maybe if I ate nothing but ex-lax for the next week or contracted a mild case of cholera AND got my period early, I could avoid the painful task of shopping? Suck it up, Audra. Go to the mall. Heck, lash out. I decided that I would spend up to the lavish sum of $300 if I could find a dress I liked! Oh so naive!

I browsed through three levels of frilly summer dresses to the tunes of Frosty the Snowman and Winter Wonder Land blaring over the loudspeakers. Very unsettling. Sadly, renaissance waistlines are still at the height of fashion for dresses here. Granted, I have never had much of a waistline, but it certainly does not reside just below my boobs – which, by the way, as a result of the above referenced weight gain have increased an entire cup size. Some may view that as a distinct benefit, but the consequences for baby-doll dresses are dire. However, since there were absolutely no other alternatives for waistlines – no slimming scoops, no drop down hip riders…

“Open your mind, Audra, open your miiiind.”

I selected the only three dresses in the store that even mildly interested me and made my way to the changing room. I tried not to look in the mirror as I undressed, as I knew I would be discouraged by the site of my naked body under bright fluorescent lights. I slipped on the first dress – a brightly colored floral print with a voluminous skirt. The waistline was shockingly low – it rested just above my floating ribs. I normally consider myself to be above average height, but I looked like a stubby little garden troll on popsicle sticks. I tried the next – a long silky black ball gown with a plunging neck line. Show ‘em off, why not? It looked like I was wearing a thousand dollar maternity dress. I didn’t even try on the third. I had experienced enough humiliation for one afternoon.

I took my whingeing to my co-workers and had a good old fashioned rant. Because Amelia is young and cheerful and doesn’t know any better, she offered to accompany me shopping at the bohemian punk-rock boutique stores in Newtown during lunch. “I will break you too,” I thought to myself, but I was feeling especially defeated. With resignation and my grandmother’s voice echoing in my head, I tried on every frock she fancied. Amazingly, I walked away with not one, but two new dresses – a long black number with red polka dots and red pleats and a full skirted picnic blue print dress covered with little tikki heads. And I kept within my original budget.

Now, I just need to find the perfect accessory…if only I still had my black cat tail!