What’s Your Weakness? Only Your Closet Knows for Sure
“W hat’s your gift wish?” asks the well-meaning relative who loves giving us something sartorial. Durned if we know. We look in our closets, our chests of drawers, and our faces turn red at the excess.
What do we want that we don’t already have? Why did we buy all this stuff in the first place? When will we stop?
SHE: I have a problem with this thing I call The Purchase Fantasy--that’s why I have so much in my closet. I’ll walk into a department store and see a fabulous bathing suit, for instance, and think: “ Perfect for that pool day in Bora Bora” when I have no plans to visit the place.
Or I’ll see a theater suit and picture myself at Sardi’s in New York, chatting about the newest Wendy Wasserstein smash. (I always have plans to hit Sardi’s, but how many theater suits does one gal need?)
Then there’s the fur department. I can’t pass one without popping in to stroke a Russian sable and think: “Ideal for that cold London night when I have a tete-a-tete at the Connaught.” (OK, I haven’t bought the sable. But I’m still working on the fantasy.)
HE: My Waterloo is sweaters. Which would make sense if I lived in, say, Greenland, but global warming in Southern California is rendering my woolens all but unusable.
I’m particularly vulnerable to sweaters with logos on them. I have maybe eight of them with golf course logos stitched onto the left breast and one with the logo on the left sleeve. When I see a logo sweater in a store or, God help me, in a pro shop (where they’re usually a lot more expensive), I think how cool I’ll look on the course when I wear it. Unfortunately, if I wear it I’m not cool, I’m hot. Golf in SoCal rarely requires a wool sweater.
SHE: I have a weakness for black sweaters, sweat shirts, tank tops and T-shirts. They go with everything--look good anywhere, I tell myself. They make me look skinny. They hide bulges. They’re chic! So I have dresser drawers that look like the inside of the La Brea Tar Pits.
HE: Ah, wonderful black. It never occurred to me to wear anything black until about four years ago when, just for the pure hell of it, I ordered a black polo shirt from Land’s End. I figured if it looked too satanic on me I’d only be out 17 bucks. But it looked great, or at least I thought it did. Now I have about a half dozen of them on my closet shelf, ready to spring into action when the two currently in use start to show too much wear. And nobody’s told me yet that I look like the angel of death in them.
SHE: Truth is, I’d rather people didn’t give me clothing for Christmas. Even when they think they have a perfect idea of what I like, they miss. And I feel horrible returning the gift, so it just sits in my closet, chiding me for being so picky.
Then there’s the Gray Thing, my gift to myself that is turning out to be a miss. The waist was a little tight when I bought it a few weeks ago, but, employing the When I’m Really Thin fantasy, I went for it. Well, there it sits, shoes to match, and no place to go. Right now, I’m working on the I Will Lose Five Pounds in One Week fantasy.
HE: Yes, the song of the truly deluded. Mea culpa, too. For years, I’d wanted an A-2 jacket (what the stores insist on calling a “bomber” jacket) and I finally resolved to buy one, even though I hadn’t attained the requisite lean, muscular physique that goes so well with a military-issue leather jacket. And I bought it two sizes too small, figuring it would be a great incentive. So there it continues to sit, in the front of my closet, mocking me for the spineless weasel that I am. Heck, it even looks terrific on the hanger, but it won’t fit me.
SHE: Shall we talk hats? There’s the red felt one with the big red feather that I’ve never worn. There are the two ranch mink hats--one a French beret, one a Russian Cossack type--that I’ve worn once. There’s the dramatic, broad-brim black straw I’ve only worn once because it makes me feel like I’m trying too hard. And the pricey Panama that I bought in Santa Fe last summer that I haven’t worn since. Not to mention all of those baseball hats that make me look like Joe DiMaggio.
I really do plan to wear the black knit beret by Donna Karan that I bought last week. It is studded with black rhinestones--perfect for an aperitif on the Champs Elysees!
HE: First of all, let me say that no matter what you do, you’ll never look like Joe DiMaggio.
And I’m glad to hear about a kindred-yet-misguided soul who never met a hat she didn’t like. I bet I’ve bought a couple dozen hats in the past few years, and I don’t wear any of them with any sort of regularity (except, maybe, for this swell Panama I got for cheap and that sits so lightly on the head I hardly know it’s there). And, because I don’t own a hat rack, I have tweed caps, Stetsons, a pair of fedoras, a bell-crowned top hat, golf hats, baseball caps, a Marshallese straw hat and even an Elizabethan flat cap hanging off every piece of furniture that has an edge on it.
There’s a bright side, though: They all fit.
