The Great American Apparel Diet

no buying for one year

Tonight I was with my friend Portia who has been contemplating going on this diet for 11 months now.  I told her that I have decided to extend the diet for one more year, in light of the fact that there have been so many people interested in joining the effort in the past few weeks (here we go again).  When I told Portia it wasn’t too late to realize the benefits of clothing deprivation she hooped and hollered “That’s what I need, a closet colonic.”  The visual made me gag.  She went on to claim, “Deep within my big, fat, bloated walk-in closet there is a skinny one begging to be free.”  Portia, warming to the idea, is going to “think about it,” before she commits.  Let me be clear…I am not doing this for another year myself but I will moderate, facilitate, contemplate and write about life post diet.   

Alright already Portia—stop the squawkin’ and start walkin’ give your closet the future it deserves with a purge, a cleanse a regular down home colonic.  We’re here my dear and waiting to hear how it all “flushes out.”

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O.K., I am not proud.  I have told nearly every woman I know that I am simply starving on this @#$%^& diet.  The good news, my incessant complaints and whines have been rewarded with hand-me-downs from friends and family (maybe they just want me to shut up).  Now, these aren’t Oliver Twist castoffs.  Remember, birds of a feather flock together.   My friends and family have hand-me-downs with tags still on them or barely worn items that they “bought on a whim,” and shouldn’t have (you know the story).  I am sorry for their mistakes, but not really.  I’m glad to be the one who can take these items off their hands.  Most importantly their gifts are going to good use.  Just last week I received a beautiful wrap from my mother,  a white knit item, just like Meryl Streep wore in the movie It’s Complicated.  I am now wearing a pair of pewter Donald Pliner slides and a great pair of lulu lemon tights my yoga friend gave me (she has three of the same pair).  So my point?  Tell people you will gladly take their shopping mistakes off their hands.  They will fell great about it, especially if you wear them again and again.  Now go forth and tell the world, “I am hungry, feed me your scraps!”

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First month in, and I’ve been committed to the diet. It hasn’t been as hard as I thought it would be. Or maybe because I’ve been avoiding shopping malls and boutiques altogether. The closest thing I’ve been to a clothing store for weeks has been in a Target. And even then, I find my eyes lingering in the general vicinity of women’s apparel. SPRING CLOTHES ARE OUT!!! Bright gorgeous colors are calling out to me! And then I move on. Out of sight, out of mind.

For weeks, I have contemplated on this challenge and what it means to me. And then I thought, “Have I really become a slave to material possessions?” When I think about it, people work to pay bills. People work hard to catch up on debt. People work extra hours to afford that new dress in Nordstrom. Of course working is important for survival as well. But how do you explain everyone else who has two of everything? When is it enough? And then my mind wanders to poverty-stricken countries or people who are just down in their luck. I sometimes feel a rush of embarrassment. When I try to think about it, the only people I’m helping are the already rich venture capitalists who are laughing at the mere thought of me scrounging for my last dollar to buy a pair of shoes on sale.

Don’t get me wrong, I love having that buying power, but is it really necessary to have 24 pairs of bra? Such greed. Really, there’s got to be a limit.

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As a little girl, I loved dresses. I loved trying them on, twirling in front of the mirror to see how far the skirt of the dress flew out around me and then wrapped itself around my legs when I stopped. It made me giddy; made me feel pretty. I almost always wore a dress to church on Sundays and frequently to school (with shorts underneath, of course, so I could hang upside down from the monkey bars). Throughout my high school years and 20’s, it was a staple need for any special occasion event. The first thing I would do if invited to a special dance or wedding was head out to the store to find that perfect dress. I would get just the right shoes and even the perfect earrings. I loved going into Nordstrom’s or Saks Fifth Avenue and try on lots of dresses to see which one would make me feel grown-up, lady-like, and gorgeous (not to mention like someone who could afford these shopping sprees!).  In my 30’s, I still went immediately to dresses for special occasions but they became fewer and far between. I liked having dresses in my closet for just the right party, theatre outing, or wedding. 

But oddly enough, now that I officially am a grown-up, I rarely wear dresses.  The first thing I go to is a pair of jeans or on work-at-home days, sweats. In my early career, I always wore skirts with heels (and, yes even pantyhose—YIKES!). It felt like the right thing to do, the right way to dress to look professional. But the dresses and skirts in my closet rarely make an appearance anymore. Is this a result of my professional move from book publishing into software? From the comfort-level of sitting in a pair of pants instead of a dress? The fact that weddings and special dances are fewer and farther between? Or from my 6+ years living in Seattle? Or just the natural fashion trend from living on the west coast? Maybe it’s all of the above.

In one of my first posts, I wrote about the fact that I went out and bought a few new dresses to add to my closet before the diet started. I had this vision that perhaps that would be helpful in my ongoing dating search for Mr. Right.  I did receive lots of compliments when I wore them (although, I still haven’t worn 3 of the dresses I purchased back in September). And, I did feel more feminine. Perhaps, it’s time to break out some of these dresses again and see if I can recapture whatever that feeling was I used to define as feeling  grown-up, lady-like, and gorgeous on a more regular basis.

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You have most likely heard by now that I caved.  Here’s my mea culpa.

I have always been a fan of designer duds.  Given my Calvinist background and my reluctance to spend the equivalent of my mortgage on an outfit, I have abstained from the couture department at Neimans and Saks and opted instead for the knock offs found a few floors down. 

My Style? I like a good Chanel outfit complete with pearls or a Tiffany something-or-other.  Much to my sister Sally’s annoyance, I have admired Sarah Palin’s wardrobe out loud (post shopping splurge of course) and continue to look to Nancy Reagan, circa 1985, as a seminal fashion icon.  So when I was invited to “shop until I dropped” at the swanky, upscale, hoity-toity, designer brand employee store at prices exceeding 50% off of the manufacturer’s cost, what was I to do?  It was a dream come true.  Upon getting the invitation I was a bit nervous, dieting and all.  I told myself that I could shop for others, after all Christmas was coming.  Plus I wanted to see how deep the discounts really were. 

Naturally, after a few minutes of browsing the racks of amazing apparel, I found myself in the oversized dressing room (people who spend a lot of money need a lot of room).  Anyway, I was standing in my Natori bra and underwear smack dab in front of the mirror when I had the life changing conversation with myself. “Are you going to let a sociological experiment that your sister cooked up ruin your once in a lifetime couture moment?”  The answer came to me loud and clear. “Hell no! You go girl!”  And that’s how it happened.  Can you blame me?  (Sally refers to this as the apple moment).

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I love a little thought provoking deprivation (I do a complete cleanse now and again), I think it builds character and brings me closer to my ancestors who struggled through the Civil War and the Great Depression.  But this time deprivation got in the way of an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. 

If it helps, I was reluctant to write about falling off the wagon because I didn’t want to spark a revolution.  Don’t you girls get any grand ideas.  And if I may, I would like to impart some inspirational advice…do as I say and not as I do. 

Do I feel better, happier, and sexier now that I have an armful of very high quality expensive couture apparel hanging in my closet?  I’ll tell you what, I feel smart because I bought an entire wardrobe for a fraction of my mortgage (if I had paid full retail it would have been double my mortgage and a car payment).  But money and intelligence aside I know I will have all these items for a lifetime. In fact I don’t think I’ll need to buy another anything for the rest of my life—or until the swanky swanks invite me back.

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I love, love, love jeans. I love that I work on the west coast and in software so it’s completely acceptable to wear jeans to work—not just on ‘casual Friday.’ I love to wear them with a simple T-shirt, a cool belt (favorites from Frankie & Julie), and a simple jacket or blazer with pointy-toed boots or strappy heels. I, too, wear them almost daily—to the store, to work, on the plane for my many business travels, to the movies, to church, to a restaurant or just around the house.

 Sally introduced me to Lucky jeans during my Seattle years (late ‘90s) and I’ve been a fan ever since. I love the button fly and the “Lucky You” imprinted there—it cracks me up. I love clever little details like that. I have 5 pairs of Lucky jeans and just donated a pair that had a serious tear on the backside. And, Daisy Duke cut-off jeans are so not me. . .so, sadly, off they went.  

And, then last year when I was shopping for my upcoming first Paris trip (which, of course, required that I find some cool togs to wear!), I discovered David Kahn. I spent an excruciating hour in the Individualist department at Nordstrom with a very patient sales associate who brought me every hip pair they had. The problem was exactly that. .  .my hips. I couldn’t get most of the jeans over them and if I did, I couldn’t sit down in them without exposing my backside. Again, so not me. .  . and then David Kahn dark wash. Every time I wear them I receive a compliment—ya gotta love that. Every time I wear them my hands end up slightly stained from the dark blue wash. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the compliments and the way I feel in them: shapely yet sexy. 

 I’m committed to my David Kahn and Lucky jeans—boot cut only. It’s the perfect balance for me and my hips. This season’s straight-legged jeans will never be found in my closet. Conveniently, I’m dieting during this trend but also because they’re so not me. .  .

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Thus far, I haven’t had too much TGAAD-related angst. I suspect that this is partially attributable to the fact that I am not nearly as fabulous as the rest of you. In addition, as a particularly tall drink of water, I have trouble finding clothes, which has had the effect of lowering my fashion expectations. I tend to peruse the windows at Anthropologie or Nordy’s or Barney’s, ogle the fantastic duds, and then remember that I am several orders of magnitude larger than the mannequins. Any cravings are quickly quashed.

But I have been in a rut, clothing-wise. The combination of a pre-TGAAD closet purge, a desire to get the most out of my “investment” pieces, and general laziness led me to adopt a uniform, of sorts: long sleeved T, a (theoretically interesting) sweater, jeans (to roll or not to roll, that was my question), boots, and a (theoretically interesting) accessory. When I was in the office, I would grab a sweater or shift  dress, gussy it up with some accessories and – if I was feeling really crazy – patterned tights. Easy-peasy.

As a result, many of the inhabitants of my closet (my seriously edited/considerably more spacious/no reinforcements arriving anytime soon closet) were neglected. And I was setting myself up for failure. I realized that if I stuck with the uniform over the upcoming 7 months of fall/winter/fake spring, (a) my clothes would disintegrate and (b) I would fall off the proverbial wagon.

So, this morning I reached into my closet and pulled out the thing I wear the least: a black wool and cotton dress, strapless (bear with me), with a fitted corset and a bubble skirt. I bought it at Baby & Co. when I still could shop at Baby & Co.; it’s by a Danish label called Bitte Kai Rand. It is architectural and unique and really fun to wear; I usually pair it with a white t-shirt, tights and boots. I don’t break it out more because it is a polarizing piece: people either compliment me on it or look at me like I’m from space (sometimes they do both).

I put it on this morning and marched downstairs. My husband told me I looked like a kick ass German chick. Danish, I replied. Crisis averted, at least for one more day.

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I have a friend who judges women on whether or not they remember where they were when Lady Di died.  She uses this as a barometer for what kind of woman you are.  If you can’t remember or don’t care my friend would instantly dismiss you as “not her kind of girl.” 

Well I can take that concept a step further…I know what I was wearing when Lady Di died—a pair of burnt orange Gap jeans, a gray short sleeved t-shirt and a pair of ratty Nike Pegasus shoes, sans socks.  I was probably wearing a bad bra too; I don’t remember the brand.  Underwear? Who knows?  I had been painting my office and made a quick trip to the paint store when I heard the news.  I wish I had been more appropriately dressed for the occasion.  It was Lady Di after all.  

I know it’s silly and probably a giant brain drain but like songs from the 70s I remember almost every important event in my life by the outfit I wore.  I am not just talking about clothes I wore in pictures; I am talking about clothes that I wore to my first gyno appt., my first kiss, and my first day of third grade.  The list goes on and on, it’s kind of embarrassing.  

I also have a list in my brain of my top ten outfits of a lifetime.  It starts with an ensemble from third grade.  A knit pant suit with yellow and white horizontal striped bell bottoms (who knew that was ever a good look) and a solid yellow knit tunic.  And then there was the pair of footless black leggings paired with a fuchsia shaker sweater that went down to my knees—In retrospect I looked like The Big Fig Newton with a ratty perm.  Then there was the Rayon black blazer from The Limited that I wore with pleated Seattle Blues acid washed jeans, The Nicole Miller aqua and black print flapper dress with the long waist (it looked hideous on me but I loved the print). 

I won’t bore you with the rest of my top ten, but here’s my point.  Apparel makes my world-go-round.  It’s part of who I am, how I approach the world and how I organize my mind.  Weird, and quite possibly shallow, I know.  Just think of all the world’s problems that have been left unsolved simply because my brain is filled with memories of polyester and wool. But, oh well, that’s me. 

 For the record, as I write this I am wearing a J. Crew heather gray long sleeved cotton t-shirt, a pair of strategically ripped jeans by Big Star, my Frye engineer boots with Hue stripped socks, a pair of Calvin Klein undies and a flesh colored Natori bra.

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