It's About the Clothes

What are you wearing? Somehow dwelling on clothes engenders intense feelings of guilt. Surely in life there are many more important things to think about than the garb one fishes out of the wardrobe to cover one’s naughty bits. But for women, clothes signify something more than an investment in modesty. Women who swear blind they don't give a toss about clothes make powerful statements wearing something (usually horrible) that they don't care about.


Clothes don’t maketh me totally, but sadly they contribute to my identity. They speak volumes about me the eternal coat hanger. Facile, disappointing, sad but true. We are what we wear. Sometimes we are what we're not wearing.

Picture this. Mother sits down at the dinner table, surrounded by the AACs (for those who skipped earlier posts: almost adult children). Baby AAC is wearing my newish T-shirt.

“That’s my T-shirt” I say.

“Really?” says baby AAC. “I just found it in my cupboard and I thought even if it’s not mine, I’m wearing it!”

“Actually mum, I saw you wearing it the other day and I thought ‘I’m taking that T-shirt’” says oldest AAC.

“That is so sweet” I say, feeling chuffed that my chickens appreciate my hip and groovy taste in fashion.

“Yes, well I really don’t think it’s right for you.”

Well. Well. Well. I felt like tipping the salad bowl right over her head, but you will be pleased that I didn’t. This pillar of diplomacy said “Thank you dearest daughter for not telling me I looked like mutton dressed up as lamb in that T-shirt. I like your tact!”

Then an overcompensating rant ensued about my usually elegant sense of style (oldest AAC pushing right along) and ended with me, spitting the dummy: “I am never going to wear T-shirts again.”

I’ve been moving towards this big decision for a bit. No more stretchy cottons for this discerning shopper. Years of slovenly pregnancy comfort dressing and the realization that stretchy clothes never wash up well…from now on it’s all about crisp cottons and silks. My chic and casual look will channel Audrey Hepburn or Jackie Kennedy, not Ms Scrag Bag from the local cheap jeans shop.

And at this point I should remind you that if you believe clothes maketh or shapeth you, only eleven days remain to see “Love Loss and What I wore.” This production oozes poignancy. It is not exclusively a chick domain, but man oh man, if you turn up there, be prepared to be noticed. Five women of various ages and stages wearing MAC lippy and Carla Zampatti black sit on high stools with candy striped folders in front of them. These folders contain thirty short stories written by Nora Ephron and her sister Delia. I suspect Magda Szubansky had a hand in adapting them to the Australian context, as well as adding a few of her own.

The themes are simple: life, death, marriage, babies, breasts, bras, shoes, cancer, boyfriends, girlfriends, families, sisters, mothers, mothers and more mothers…familiar territory for most of us women. Take your mum or your bestie. It’s a must see.

Themes may be shared but our own stories are unique. Think back to your first bra fitting. Most of us will share the feelings of humiliation, but I bet you didn’t have your Nanny conduct a “fitting” in the kitchen after Sunday lunch. She turned up with one of her legendary cheese cakes and a Grace Bros carry bag. Straight after the washing up I was ordered to remove the scratchy wool polo neck jumper that I secretly loathed but wore because it hid my emerging breasts, and out of the bag came the first bra. I stood there, cheeks on fire, praying the siblings wouldn’t burst in whilst Nanny “fitted” me. An excruciating experience.

I won’t say I’m scarred from this event, but for me, getting a bra fitted remains a past time best avoided. These days I head straight out to the Simone Perele seconds store and while the AACs crawl that nasty mall, I sneak in there and buy up en masse without even trying the devils on.

As my friend Marcie once said: “If you find a cozzie that fits, buy two.”

And so I grab four! One in black, one in white, one in cream and maybe I’ll splash out and try one in navy. Simone has my boosies in mind when she designs those figure saviours, and I’m happy about that.

It’s another scorcher here today as I open the cupboard and reach for a frock. It’s light, cool, cotton and colourful. No complicated layers to fret about, no top and bottom to coordinate. It’s so hot and I need a simple dress, just like the ones those home-based ladies wore in the olden days. They were smart, those women and if it was good enough for them, it will work fine for me!

Keep cool!