I am training for the next 30 days. I have resolved to wear a dress and high heels every day for at least a month.
Whether the training is to elevate my fashion sense or penance for voguish wrongdoing doesn’t really matter.
I suppose this compulsion to integrate a major fashion refinement began a few weeks ago. It was a normally cool October Sunday afternoon, and minutes after hugging daughter No. 2 goodbye until Thanksgiving, I instantly ran back into the house to change out of my church clothes and donned my outdoor garden apparel.
I’m not making excuses, but it was late in the afternoon and quite chilly; so I grabbed the thick, green camo pants — the toasty warm ones that formerly belonged to my husband — the “never-ever-wear-these-out of-the-yard” pants. The “I-love-these-elastic-waist-camo’s-because-they’re-campfire-warm-and-comfortable-as-a-soft-blanket” — 50 percent algodon cotton, 50 percent polyester pants. I know you understand.
I should probably inform you that I did don my hunter and forest green camos that are backdropped on field brown and drab brown imprints of faded leaves and trees branches with my nearly three-decades old Abercrombie and Fitch Company faded, pine-tree green 100 percent cotton sweatshirt. This sweatshirt is a Janet original purchased B.C., B.H. and B.U.AF — before children, before husband and before upscale A&F, when Abercrombie and Fitch was just an outfitter of sporting goods. This classic was a four–button pull over, that now displays three buttons with white cotton frays around the neckline and ends of the sleeves.
There might be some holes, but if I told you how many you might think I was tacky.
Fifteen minutes into tossing chopped-up leaves into the compost pile, I suddenly realized I may not be dressed for success. As I began to recycle lunch, avoiding my favorite hiking boots, the hubby narrowed down the pain symptoms to kidney stones or appendicitis and suggested a ride to the nearest E.R. might be a fun way to enjoy the rest of our afternoon.
I will admit that I actually spoke the words, “Maybe I should change my clothes,” until the next wave of pain and unending need to empty out my stomach came two seconds later.
I’m sure onlookers may have speculated that I was in some rare hunting accident — or maybe I had been hiking in the woods for a month and had eaten poisonous mushrooms. A bit more boring, it was merely kidney stones — and yes, the pain is quite worse than bearing children, plus the fact that you don’t get to bring home a cute bundle of joy.
And that is why I am practicing dressing nicer these days.
