My security is shaken. Last night I dreamt that my husband died and left me in my college dorm with our toddler and nothing to wear to a family wedding. I sat at the end of a long banquet table tugging my pale pink blouse trying to cover the juicier areas of my midsection and yanking a skirt fashioned out of a dried scab over my round hips. I kept leaving the table because I knew that everything would be alright if I could just find something to wear. I ran down the long, dark dorm hallway only to discover that this was no home for me or my child and there was nothing else to wear. I woke up exhausted.
I have always believed that one could survive anything if properly attired. I remember what I wore and what most people wore at every major event of my life. What I wore was the preferred object of my attention because typically the inner experience was just unmanageable. For example, Dad dies by suicide? Pale gray pants with lavendar angora sweater for the wake; navy skirt with white blouse for funeral. Perfect.
The world is an unsafe, scary place, but you can have faith in fashion. Find the right uniform and keep the other participation to a minimum. The day we buried my father, everyone said how sorry they were and how much they loved him or look at the beautiful flowers. I took comfort in the words of my aunt, "I am glad you wore a skirt." I got it right and she understood what was really important at a time like this: appearance.
No comments:
Post a Comment