I am a creature of habit, a slave to routine, and in no area of life is this more true than in my so-called fashion choices.
I went shopping at lunchtime yesterday. I bought a hoodie and 2 long-sleeved tshirts. Now I can add to the CDP Memorial Collection of Tshirts and Hoodies. I’m not sure why I do this, really. Oh, I can always use another long-sleeved tshirt, especially the nice tissue-weight kind that layers well. But I have PLENTY of them. The two I bought today are not substantially different from the ones I already have. And it’s not a hoarding thing, either; I’m far too neat to be a packrat. I had actually gone shopping for a summer dress. Not for any particular occasion; I just wanted a dress. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. I find dress shopping uniquely stressful; even the annual swimsuit hunt doesn’t provoke the same anxiety. Wearing a dress seems to require a level of groomed and coiffed girly perfection that’s beyond my capability.
I’m not a slob, by any means. I like clothes and fashion as much as the next girl, and I have a particular weakness for skincare products and handbags. I just can’t always manage to get everything working at the same time. If I have time for makeup, then my hair might go unstyled. If my hair is having a rare day of fabulousness (such as is happening today—here is why), then I certainly have a monstrous blemish on my chin. Manicures are an utter waste of time; I do my best to keep my hands looking nice but I have an unholy compulsion to pick at my cuticles, so they usually look like I’ve spent the day in a cotton field. There is a great appeal for me in the idea of crisp, polished Rosalind Russell perfection. There’s equal appeal, though, in the idea of everyday, low-maintenance, ready-for-whatever serviceability. And though I might occasionally long for and even attempt to attain the former, I know that the latter is the realm in which I belong. In that realm, a person needs hoodies. And tshirts.