If you’re one of my young readers, especially my teenaged readers (I love you!), you can skip this post. The rest of you, please read on (with empathy, I hope).
I’ve never been into fashion, as anyone who knows me can tell you. I have my everyday jeans and my dressy jeans, and that’s about it. But each year, as I approach the season in which I’ll be making public appearances, I drag myself to the store to look for something to wear. That elusive something is getting harder and harder to find.
You see, I’ve reached this truly unjust age in which I must cover my arms to avoid scaring my audience, but I’m also at the age in which I’m simply too hot to cover my arms. It’s a dilemma!
So yesterday, I went shopping for a top that might meet my cover-my-arms need as well as my not-too-hot need. I scoured the racks in my favorite (well, I really don’t have a favorite. I am so not into this) clothing store. It took me about an hour, but I finally found about twenty contenders and carried them into the fitting room. (Yes, there was a little sign telling me I could only take six garments in with me, but no one was minding the store. Seriously, would you have taken in six at a time?). For half an hour, I tried on top after top. Too tight. Too loose. Nauseating color. And–most of the time–too hot. I gave up. I was piling the tops back into my arms when I noticed this balled up thing, someone’s discarded something or other, on the floor in the corner. I thought I’d be a good person and take it out with me, leaving the fitting room nice and tidy. I picked it up. The fabric was light and airy. The sleeves were 3/4 length. The color was a deep blue. The size. . . well, we won’t go into that, but it was my size. I dropped the other tops in a heap, whipped off my sweater and slipped into the most perfect going-out-to-meet-the-public blousy kind of thing ever.
Next time, I’ll check the floor of the fitting room first.