I'm a judger. Let me clarify, I'm a clothes judger. If you think I looked a little too long at your cardigan/camisole combination- you're probably right. I'm sizing you up. I can't help it. It's a disease.
Working retail brought outfit choices to the forefront of my mind. If I see a belt, I automatically think of what all I can wear it with. This attention to detail hasn't always been there. In fact, it's my best friend,whom I affectionately call my Life Partner, who changed me (read: brainwashed). My favorite fashion blunders are the trainwreck accessorizers of the world. I worked with a girl who couldn't match a scarf to her outfit to save her life. This same girl also had a knack for copying my outfits (and my LP's) and absolutely ruinging them to the point that we would seriously contemplate selling the articles of clothing that comprised the outfit to Plato's closet the next day. But enough about the judging.
You had to know that Granny was going to worm her way into this post, and here she is. Just in time.
You see, this weekend I went home to be in a dear friend's wedding. Since I wouldn't be doing much other than taking pictures at the ceremony and lounging around the house, all I took home with me were flip flops, a few tank tops and some yellow shorts. And my church outfit for Sunday. These clothes served me well. Until yesterday when I headed back to the City.
I'm notorious for losing things. Friends keep my credit card number in their wallets because they know it's inevitible that I'll lose it at some point. They're good like that. Well, true to form, I lost my flip flops. My only shoes that I had brought with me with the exception of a pair of nude heels. Granny was cleaning out my closet with me so I asked her if she'd seen them.
"Yeah, they're right here. Barely look like they've been worn. Hey, I might want to have these!" Granny loves to comandeer my stuff. But, thankfully, flipflops "rub her toes slap raw" so she passed on confiscating them.
I was relieved. My havianas are my babies. I was forced to buy them, but wouldn't take anything for them. Except a new Louis. Or cake. But other than that, nothing.
I let the flipflop scare fade to the back of my mind and proceeded to pack down my car for the journey home. Once my car was packed to the gills with boxes, topiaries, candle holders, and luggage, I went to say goodbye. It was getting dark out and Granny was going into a fit because she didn't want me driving in the dark in the City. Heaven forbid.
I scoured the house for missing objects and came up empty handed, so I said my goodbyes and went to put on my shoes. The redneck in me doesn't like wearing shoes around the house.
Then I saw them. The flipflops Granny had mentioned. I should have known that her flash-obsessed, glittered out self wouldn't want my simple champagne havianas. The flip flops she was referring to were a pair of hot pink, platform flip flops that belong on a 4' tall grandma. I had no choice. It was the flip flops or the heels. I had to go with the flip flops. It hurt me to put them on. My feet burned where they touched me. But I did it.
Naturally, once on the road I discovered that my tank was running empty. I pulled into the first mom and pop gas station I came across, thankful that I had my debit card on me. The station was packed with pick up trucks and atv's. Not to mention their burly, dirty, cut-off-tee wearing owners. As if the stars weren't already aligned against me, the stupid pump tells me that I must see the attendant. I cringed. At this point, I'm wearing the shorts and tank top, and the sandals. My shorts are beyond inappropriately short, and I'd stripped my bra as soon as I got into the car. I could have died. Wanted to die. Was praying for lightning.
The toothless attendant took a whole minute to scan my card, comment on the pink magnetic strip, ask where I was headed, and insist that I fill up instead of getting just the half a tank I wanted. Clearly she didn't pick up on my urgency to get the heck out of dodge. On my way out, it happened.
I was judged. Publically. By an old grandma sitting on the bench outside, smoking a pack of Virginia Slims.
"Don't she know not to wear short shorts AND a tank top? And those shoes. Trash"
I could have died. Thought my prayers had been answered. Hoped my prayers had been answered.
Nope. Still breathing. I was the unwilling wearer of a middle-school girl's outfit, and I was judged for it. 'Twas a low point in my life.
I blame Granny. And myself. After all, I should have followed my cardinal rule.
If one must dress like trash, at least wear your watch and carry your purse. That way, people will know you must not look that way all the time.
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