I wanted to make the right impression for my first trip to New York. I wanted to blend in, I wanted to stand out, I wanted to be trendy, I wanted to be classic. Basically, I wanted to cover up the fact I hadn’t read a fashion magazine in years. My suitcase was still empty the morning of my flight. I stood there in my underwear with my hands on my hips, studying my closet.
I was going to the glamorous New York Gift Show with a jewelry design company I worked for. It was a stylish event, one where I imagined people looking sleek and delicious in powerful stilettos. The design team was bringing samples of the current collection and I was going to help set up the display booth and work with customers. I was thrilled. Then terrified. Then thrilled again.
“Me?” I asked the universe. “They really want me?”
I shifted my stance: “Yes, you. Why not you?”
“I’ve never seen this kind of show before,” I told me. “And I’ve never been to New York City. What if I have to find my way around all by myself?”
“You can do this,” my better half said encouragingly to the reflection of my lesser half. “You are good at reading maps. You used to deliver pizza. Remember?”
I stood there demurring and bolstering as a loud buzz started in the back of my head, then moved to the front of my head and triggered a reaction in my tongue, which began to flop about in my mouth, forming syllables that, when strung together and uttered from my lips, formed words. Anxious words.
“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO WEAR?” my mouth shouted.
Panicked, my brain hurried to reactivate a dusty corner of my frontal lobe where I had mentally tucked a cerebral mélange of outdated fashion clippings from magazines, a recipe for broccoli soup, the combination to my high school locker and other mental notes I had thought important at one time or another.
“Never wear hosiery with open-toed shoes.”
“Short skirts with low heels; long skirts with high heels.”
“Never leave the house without lipstick.”
“Keep your pedal digits polished.”
I closed my eyes and squeezed them tight, helping my mind’s eye dig through brain cells. Something in the great assembly of advice in my style box had to help me pack for my trip to New York. I searched page after mental page as I paced the floor. I went to my closet again, my mind furiously reciting fashion dos and don’ts.
“Never wear white after Labour Day.”
“Never wear linen in the winter.”
“Never mix navy and black.”
“Never, never, never . . .”
I screamed and put my hands over my ears — silencing the voices in my head. I blew out a huge breath and attacked my closet. I gathered every piece of black clothing I owned and crammed them into my suitcase. Black skirts, black boots, black sweaters and black pants.
“Black is slimming,” I heard my memory add in support as I ran from closet to suitcase.
“Everything goes with black.”
“Black is always sophisticated.”
“Maybe I’ll get invited to a funeral?”
When my suitcase could hold no more, I gave it a nod and zipped it shut.
“There,” I said to my luggage. I felt triumphant, but for one problem.
What would I wear to the airport?
Comments are closed.