I can't argue with her. I wear only a fraction of what I own, and by most standards, I don't own a lot. But I rarely consider what I want to wear on most days. Since O. arrived over a year ago, I've lived in yoga togs while at home. I tell myself it's a matter of practicality -- when I'm constantly cleaning up after a baby, now a toddler, having to avoid getting my clothes dirty is impossible. And during his precious sleep hours -- my writing time -- the last thing I worry about is how I look.
But some invisible finger always pokes me a little when I see how put together my sister is. Hey, the voice that goes with it says, why can't you dress like she does? If not all the time, at least when you're making your nth run to Target?
Half the problem, it seems, is that I can't tell what makes an outfit work. Starting with basic fit. At least four pairs of pants I model for my sister get an immediate rejection. One is in beautiful Italian herringbone wool, which I've had since my first year out of college. "Those legs," my sister says. "Way too wide." She's right -- even if the style might have been in ten years ago, I never quite liked how it looked on me but couldn't understand why. "You've got sad crotch too!" she adds with almost comical dismay -- the rise is too deep, and the extra fabric is sagging beneath me. I laugh. All of this adds up to a heavy look in the butt and thighs that is, in my sister's words, tragic. How did I not see it, though? I wonder. It's only clear now that she's pointed out the underlying issues.
The pants are tucked in with the rest of the items I hand to the girl behind the cash register at the consignment store. While I wait for the manager to screen them, I wander through the women's section on a whim. My sister and I took one day of her visit to shop a nearby outlet mall, with success -- she's helped me replace what I'm getting rid of with updated staples -- but we didn't find the skinny jeans she's insisted will be a versatile addition to my wardrobe.
I'm intimidated by the idea of anything that might grab my post-baby jelly belly in its unforgiving waistband, but I browse the racks. This'll be a long shot, I think. Most of what I tried on at the outlets fit in the legs but not in the seat -- it's as if my body's been cobbled together from different-sized parts. But I spot a pair that looks promising: clean tailoring without embellishments or flaps on the pockets, a rise that's not too high or low, and a really dark wash that will be long wearing. O. wriggles impatiently and cranes his neck to see what I'm looking at. When he can't turn beyond the limits of the carrier, he starts making noises of protest.
"Okay, okay," I say. I might as well try these on at under thirty dollars, and O. needs to stretch his legs.
I maneuver us into the curtained dressing room and quickly release O. from his straps and buckles. He sits on the built-in bench for a few minutes while I change. The legs on the jeans are too long, but the waist buttons at a good position -- no gut overflow. I'm not confident on what else I'm supposed to be assessing, though, having never owned skinnies. Are they like any other pair of pants? Will these bunch weirdly at the knees after I stand up from sitting down? Is there a teensy bit too much fabric in the butt? Do I buy the jeans regardless? They're less than half the price of a brand-new pair, but like all else in the store, they're final sale.
As I peer ambivalently at my reflection, O. scrambles off his seat and starts shaking the mirror, which is only propped against the wall, not fixed. He moves quickly to test an adjustable floor lamp in the corner then makes a dash for the curtain. I take one last look at myself, switch back to my own bottoms, and wrestle O. into the carrier before he escapes completely.
I check the time. It's hard to say whether my sister, who is several hours ahead of me, will be available, but I want her advice. If you can't reach her, it's not meant to be, I tell myself. I dial her number.
To my relief, I get an answer. "Ass and crotch," she says, when I've explained the situation. "Those are the areas that matter most."
"Yes," I say. I've already anticipated this, after her most recent assessments. "But what am I looking for?"
"Across the front -- is there whiskering?"
She's referring to that rayed wrinkling that occurs around the base of the zipper when the cut isn't right for the body, not the intentional dye fading on the same area to produce a certain look. I'm pleased that I remembered to check before I took the jeans off. "Only a little," I say, "but I think it's because the inseam is too long and my legs are uneven."
"Okay, we can alter the hems. How about the back pockets -- are they riding really low? Is there sagging?"
"No," I say, trailing off slightly. "I mean, there might be a little extra under the cheeks, but again, I think it's because the whole leg is bunching."
"You'll pull that down and scrunch at the ankles," my sister says.
"You're sure? I mean, this is definitely not a saggy ass or sad crotch problem, but I'm worried they'll pull up out of my boots and then do a muffin-top thing at the knees."
My sister pauses. I can't tell by her silence if she thinks this is absurd, hilarious, or plausible, but I trust her more than anyone else on such matters because I know she's taking my concern seriously. Then, "I've never seen that happen. How much are they?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Done and done. I think we can work with these for this season as a starting point!"
Her enthusiasm convinces me -- and just in time. O. utters a small blast of complaints that signals me to wrap this consultation up. I pay, then collect what the shop manager doesn't want from my closet clean-out.
The drive home is quiet. I'm flushed from the heat and wrangling O., and as I turn up the air conditioning, I realize my heartbeat is running fast in my ears. I'm strangely elated. In spite of my doubts, my initial read on the jeans was good -- my sister's guiding appraisal only confirmed what I thought I ought to look for.
"Sad crotch," I mumble, remembering my sister's horror at the ill-fitting rejects now headed for donation. I start to giggle. While I usually never give this much thought to how I look at clothing, I imagine anyone listening to our conversation at the store would think I'm obsessed with the space between my navel and thighs.
There's something that's tragic, I think, laughing harder. But I'm happy to feel for once that I'm not a complete fashion idiot.
*
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