It makes sense that we are made up of many parts, and that those parts are all cohabiting under the one roof of our own complicated persona. I am a wife, a mother, an artist, a singer, a painter, a witch, a little girl, an angry teen, an aggressive boy, a powerhouse CEO, probably an ax murderer (but so far I’ve managed to keep her locked in the musty basement, with the mildewed rug someone gave me and I can’t seem to throw away), a gourmet chef, and, and, and, and …
Apparently we bring just one of all those personalities to the party, while all the other beings coexist inside us all the time.
Maybe that explains why every so often, I seem to have to reintegrate some of my selves and see who wants to take the lead this time. That’s never been that much of a problem. But it’s what those selves wear that has been the big challenge.
Recently we were invited to a dinner where I didn’t know anyone, and I wanted to look good. I started pulling things out of my overstuffed but less-than-joy-sparking (where are you, Marie Kondo?) closet. My favorite black cashmere dress has a moth hole right at the crotch. Not good. My best James Perse white T shirt has a big gray grease stain below the left boob. I’ve got my go-to pants, all from the same yoga company, but the knees are stretched out, and the cuffs are frayed. I don’t do yoga, although maybe late at night the pants do a sun salutation all by themselves. How would I know? I have gotten away with wearing these make-believe actual pants as my dressy look for years. How many people, I wonder, have thought, “What is she doing in yoga pants? She probably doesn’t even do yoga.”
Anyway, clearly it’s time for a wardrobe update. I remember the last image overhaul I had. It was after living here on the Vineyard full-time for a decade. We went back home to Hartford to see a musician friend of ours performing in a club. We walked in late, and after about 10 minutes our friend, who was the lead singer, stopped the band, pointed her nose in our direction, sniffed exaggeratedly, and said, “Yum, wood smoke –– the Aronies are here.” Everyone laughed. And I loved it.
I should really listen to my inner fashionista (who has been on hiatus, and maybe even a little depressed): “Nance, time to go shopping.”
So last week when visiting NYC, I found myself in an elegant shop. After a minute of watching me peruse, the gal behind the counter said, “Are you looking for anything in particular?” I heard myself say, “I know who I am, but I don’t know what she wears.”
That line sounded so familiar.
And then I remembered. We had lived here year-round for about seven years, and were having friends over for dinner. Lisa looked gorgeous. She had on a sexy silk blouse and tight leggings and high-heeled sneakers. She had actual makeup on, and her hair was in a gorgeous French braid. I looked at her, and then I looked in my mirror. I was wearing an oversize red and black plaid hunter’s jacket and faded loose jeans, and my cute August curls were on some kind of sabbatical, and my head was left with a bunch of limp “L”s. I usually wear eyeliner, but it had smudged, and it looked as if Joel had lost his temper.
The guys were talking to each other and I remember saying, “Leese, I know who I am, but I don’t know what she wears.”
Without skipping a beat, Lisa said, “When was the last time you felt beautiful, and what was she wearing?” What happened next surprised even me. I started weeping. I cry easily, but –– then? With dinner guests? Over my outfit? When did I last feel beautiful?
Without skipping my beat, I said, “Seven, when I was 7.”
I pictured my 7-year-old self, and said, “Little pinafores. Little feminine dresses, thin cotton, maybe rayon, little girl dresses.” So Lisa said, “Go buy little girl dresses for grownup women.” And that’s what I did.
I wish I had pictures of my long, not exactly Betty Grable legs hanging out of minidresses walking down Main Street in Vineyard Haven. An overgrown 7-year-old, but head high aloft, feeling beautiful.
Those days are long gone now. And here I was in a shop with clothes that had tags with numbers way beyond what I wanted to spend. I walked out with a few white T shirts (without stains and without the smell of smoke), and came rushing back to the Island.
Maybe they don’t make clothes for all the mes that are once again jostling for position.
I can’t be the only person who has been in a similar life transition. So what did they do with their old clothes? Someone is wearing my little girl miniskirts, and someone else is wearing my red and black wool jacket. And then it hit me: “Where on this Island does one go for the most hip, the chicest, the best deal with the highest value? Hey, is the Dumptique open on Thursdays?”
