It’s Fashion Week in New York City. Newspapers and television are sharing bits of the runway; outfits on tall, thin models that I always wonder who buys.
My closet is full yet I have nothing to wear.
Not literally of course. I have tons of skirts and jeans, a few dresses, a couple pairs of dressy slacks, blouses, and plenty of pocketbooks and shoes.
Yet each time I have to go somewhere other than yoga class or the supermarket, I deliberate about my clothes. My sisters often ask each other what we plan to wear to a family event; for some reason we need consensus. If one is wearing a skirt, the others will too.
When I taught, I took out my clothes the night before—everything including earrings. Now as a freelance writer, working at home, I’m often at my computer early in the morning, still in my nightgown. After breakfast, about three times a week, I go to yoga. For a while, I rushed home after class to shower and change before doing errands, like going to the library or food shopping. I realized how much time I lost doing this. The Y is next door to the library. Would it be so terrible to go there straight from class?
I tried it. No one seemed to care. And, looking around the grocery store, plenty of people were in gym clothes of some form or another. It’s more fashionable to be in yoga pants or tennis togs than jeans!
I’ve been helping my cousin Robert clean out my Great-Aunt Sylvia’s apartment. She died July 13 at 100 years old. Hers was the generation of matching gloves and hats, suits and dresses, stockings and embroidered handkerchiefs. She didn’t leave the house without jewelry, a bit of make-up, and her hair done. When I wear my workout clothes beyond the gym, I often wonder what she and my grandmother would say if they saw me. I don’t think it would be positive.
I have a full day in the city of meetings and meal dates that take me into the evening. It’s supposed to be nearly 80 degrees. I’ll be up and down subway stairs, walking city blocks. What to wear? Which shoes? No spike heels for me anymore, yet I don’t care for either the running shoe look or flip-flops beyond the beach. Clogs? Ever comfortable, chunky and clunky, might be the answer.
(I wrote about fashion here: Fashion Advice from our Mothers)