A Wearing Experience - Clothes May Make the Man, but to a Woman They’re a Mood-Elevating Drug
THE MIRACLE has happened again. I was sad, the sun wasn’t shining, the computer was making funny noises. Fortunately, I knew exactly what to do. And now, sitting in my closet, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, emanating healing radiance, is a pristine white cardigan. And I’m cheerful and optimistic.
Saved! By the miracle of new clothes.
I’m lucky. I can afford to ease my pains with a shot in the wardrobe. And I’m female. I know what joy a silk camisole or a paisley scarf can bring. Men don’t seem to get the same kick out of clothing acquisitions. Not once have I heard my husband say, “Honey, look at the great socks I found today.”
“Men don’t use clothes as a mood-altering drug,” Duke says. “We go for cars and boats.”
Clothes take up less space. Besides, the only thing you can control in life is your wardrobe. Cars break down when you least expect it. Boats eat money and gas. Your house, your mate, your friends, your family, even your career, are beyond your control. However, you’re in total command of what you put on your back each morning.
“But sometimes what I have to wear takes over,” argues my sister, Laurie. “Like if I have a business meeting, I have to put on the power suit. I can’t wear the funky dress with the fringe.”
That’s only because that dress is olive and Laurie lives in Manhattan, where the women are in official mourning. “Everyone wears black all the time,” she concedes.
A few months ago, I went to New York on business. At the time, the only black thing I owned was my car. I stood in the baggage claim area at Kennedy airport, wearing a teal-blue coat and red pumps, surrounded by women in funeral garb who stared at me as if I were Bozo the Clown. It was a little disconcerting.
“Put this on,” Laurie said tactfully the next day when I appeared in a tropical print. She reached into her closet, rummaged through racks of black skirts, black blouses, black sweaters, black shoes and even black sneakers--and handed me a black jacket. It made me look and feel surprisingly sophisticated. “You should get one,” my sister said.
I was bound to succumb. The beauty of new clothes is that you can magically change your image with the wave of a charge card. Besides, fashion is a universal female bonding experience. My friends and I used to dress Barbie. Now we dress ourselves.
“Male bonding is about sports,” Duke says. “When a man visits another man, the last thing in the world they would do is try on each other’s clothes. Or shop. I can’t imagine saying to another man, ‘Hey, that sweater would look really great on you.’ ”
He doesn’t know what he’s missing. My sister took me to Nicole Miller, a sleek boutique on Madison Avenue. The ultra-chic, ultra-thin saleswoman in widow’s weeds was aghast when I pounced on a red miniskirt. “No, no, it comes in black,” she cried. But red always makes me happy.
“I don’t know how you found that,” my sister marveled. “I’ve been shopping here for three years and never noticed any color.” Laurie did get me to buy slinky black slacks and an elegant black coat dress with jet buttons. But I returned the favor. I talked her into a purple suit.
“Maybe I need a new look,” Duke said when I modeled my purchases. Unfortunately, he was joking. As far as he’s concerned, the old shoe is the best shoe.
For years, I’ve been trying to purge his closet of a pair of virulent green velvet pants--the color of an old wine bottle or Astroturf, depending on the light. Recently, I took them to the cleaners. “What do you want me to do?” the cleaner asked.
“Lose them,” I replied. (Alas, they’re still here.)
For the record, I’m not one of those slaves to fashion who refuse to wear the same outfit twice. And I’m not a compulsive buyer. I just like to wear pretty things. I wander through boutiques the way I wander through gardens, checking out the flowers in bloom. But I can say no.
“Try this little dress,” my friend Wendy said recently, holding up a dainty floral frock. We were in Suji, the cozy shop in Santa Monica, where she works.
“I don’t need the little dress,” I said.
“It’s only $48,” Wendy said. “It would look cute with lace leggings.” True, but when I tried it on, I didn’t get the feeling that something wonderful could happen at any moment. And what’s the point of new clothes if you don’t get that feeling?
“Duke would really love it,” Wendy said. I couldn’t argue with that, but . . .
Fortunately, at that moment, a dejected-looking woman trudged into the shop. Her face lit up when she saw the little dress. “Oh, what a beautiful dress,” she said wistfully.
Saved! By the miracle of new clothes.
