I was tooling down the avenue early this morning when a woman stopped to say how chic I looked. Chic? I had on my tight black pants that make me look like a matador, an ancient L.L. Bean turtleneck under a hoodie with my beat-up Barbour jacket that I’m willing to the Smithsonian. We mustn’t forget those festive pink running shoes bought on sale.
I’m like one big – don’t let this happen to you.
Her remark got me thinking, how different my fashion needs are compared to just a few years ago. So happy to say I no longer have Prada disease. In other words, you won’t see me drooling in front of their window salivating over the handbags. I went back to my trusty Kate Spade Phil the shoemaker keeps patching threatening to put it out of its misery for both our sake.
I no longer have the need to go into debt so you think I’m drowning in wealth either. I now prefer having signature pieces like my Barbour for instance. It needs refurbishing yet again, but all its holes and rips make it mine. They think I’m a little looney spending money annually on repairs. Get a new one, they always say, but they don’t make them as well as they did. Before they were 10 ply, rugged and warm – now they’re about a 3, the quality taking a serious dip only someone with an old one would realize.
In my life before this when I kept company with a fashion conscious drunken spendthrift, my closets bulged. Now they look anemic with empty hangers and spaces you could sit in. Big bags went to charity, some resale. There’s something Franciscan about having only jeans, leggins and one pair of good black pants even if they do look as if they come with a bull.
I still have quite a few shoes my reasoning being they are all flats in good shape, thanks to Phil who treats them like babies. I did sell all my expensive heels except for two pair since I no longer need to rival one of the Knicks.
Less is more, even in the pajama, sleepwear department. I love PJs but pared those down too. My armoire looks as if it lost thirty pounds. And I ask you honestly, unless you’re seducing someone on the hour, do you really need 500 thongs?
My ex, who believes more is more would immediately offer to take me shopping even though we hardly speak if he knew my drawers were half empty. Come on Susannah, how bout a roll in the hay and a little commerce for old times sake.
Chic? Could be my attitude more than attire since owning less has put a bit more spring in my step, if the fucker ever gets here and stays more than a day.
I’m really starting to hate her, that Spring.