Regretting The Great American Apparel Diet

Some context here:  For those of you who don’t know, I have given up all new apparel puchases for one year, for more info on that effot see www.thegreatamericanappareldiet.com.  Knowing this will put this little story in context.

Last night I was out with a good friend I haven’t seen in a while—it’s a schedule issue really.  My friend, she’s fabulous.  She’s married, no kids, big corporate VP job with all the accolades, notoriety and wardrobe that go along with the job.  She picked me up wearing a chic skirt, which later I learned she bought in London while on a four-city whirl wind business trip.  She had on the latest laced knee high boots and a super snappy pancho that she could pull over her head when she felt a drop of rain. 

Flash to me, older mom barely holding it together and deprived of a “new wardrobe.”  For a living?  Well, I manage to piece together a paycheck as I toggle from home to the office to school.  I am not above taking conference calls from the bedroom closet, (lest my clients detect that I am home with kids and two rambunctious cats), or writing marketing plans in the doctor’s office or from the bleachers of a baseball game.

I greet my friend at the door wearing the same jeans I have been wearing for the last 5 days (and by the way they have gotten a little baggy from the wear which somehow makes me feel thin).   Under last year’s black wrap-around sweater coat I wear a stained oatmeal colored crewneck sweater that has seen better days.   On my feet I wear my favorite pair of black Dansko clogs because everything else just hurts.  The good news is I have a fresh application of lipstick on . The bad news?  it’s  all the makeup I have on.  Upstairs, before the doorbell rang, I gave myself a cursory glance in the floor length mirror that hangs behind the closet.  I could have sworn I looked good, but once I see my friend on the doorstep it becomes painfully clear that I do not.

My friend smells good.  She has her fancy rings on her fingers and the latest watch on her wrist.  I notice her bling as I reach up to my ear and realize I forgot to put my earrings on all together. My friend says she had to “Escape from work.” In her words, “They will just have to move forward without me.”  I long to be in such hot demand from someone taller than my shoulder.  My friend told her people that she had a prior commitment and had to leave the office early.  No corporate mukety muck would understand the point of going out with a girlfriend at 5:30pm on a Monday night.  But my babysitter has a curfew and I have to be home by 10pm at the very latest.  This is standard operating procedure for me and my mommy friends who are often buzzed by 7pm and in bed by 10pm. 

When I am with my friend sans children and the big career I feel like The Great American Apparel Diet is stupid.  Like I have set myself up for frumpsville.  I feel like my career of juggling kids, a business and the occasional trip to the gym is just an excuse for a distracted and sometimes unattractive scattered existence.   What I wear is a long way down the  list of things I worry about these days, partially because I have taken up the new and brave effort to consciously consume or simply to not consume.  Seeing my friend makes me want to go to Barneys and spend like Katie Holmes.  I am moved to buy things that I know I will hate in a year, clothes that are conspicuously fashionable and expensive and well beyond my credit line.  I want clothing that says “she’s a risk taker!”   Clothes can do that you know. 

My fashionable and important, high profile friend and I  had a good time noshing on sushi and sipping saki. We skipped the movie in lieu of conversation and caramelized bananas.   I eventually forgot what I was wearing and I stopped coveting my friend’s outfit.  We discussed cancer, death and dying.  We talked about her and her husband’s effort to adopt a child, about my ever changing career and the shifting sands of the advertising business. 

After dinner my friend drove me home  just in time to relieve Rachel the babysitter (before she morphed into a winter squash). We hugged in the car and promised to get together “sooner than later.”  

Inside I chatted with Rachel and paid her in cash for watching my proidgy.  As she loaded her backpack and put on her shoes she said, “Hey, I like your sweater, where’d you get it?”   It made me laugh.  “It’s from last year…Nordstrom,” I offered, knowing that she’d never find it this year and glad that someone was coveting my wardrobe.