Into all our lives fall days of reckoning. Today was one of them for me. Scrambling out the door on my way to a doctor’s appointment, I chanced a glance down upon my outfit, and what I saw I could not quite believe. Toe to neck: Merrill slipper-like pullons, meant only for indoor, private use; pale pink Calvin Klein socks; six-year-old stretchy low-rise Levis made before they realized the back HAS to be higher than the front; a seven-year-old Club Monaco t-shirt with a little hole covered by a pale yellow, cabled v-neck pullover of same origin date by Tommy Hillfiger (you can see its sleeve in the picture).
You might be most offended by the sloppiness of my ensemble. Or by the ubiquitous brands or age of each item. Not I. It's the pale pink socks with the pale yellow sweater. Easter egg colours. Coordinated pastels. I am only 36. I have entered Loserville.
Did I change my outfit? No. I did not have time. I went out like that. To my appointment, to the vet, and even to a lunch on trendy Fourth Avenue where I might have bumped into anyone from my past or present.
I was really, really rushed. Still, there should be some innate instinct that steers your hand clear of choosing pale pink and pale yellow simultaneously. My fashion sense has never been strong, but today I stepped into another realm altogether. All I can say is I recognize the problem. And that's supposed to be the first step, right?
Last week I watched TV on a Friday night for the first time in about twenty years. I caught Friday Night Lights, a football drama I liked very much. I vowed to catch it this week. And next week, too. I made a plan to be a regular Friday-night-TV-watcher. But now, steeped in the shame of today's outfit selection, I know I must not be that person. Not yet. I cannot schedule a TV show on a Friday night as if it were a party. It's a slippery slope, a slippery, slippery slope.
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