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Green JacketIn the current decade?

I did. Many times.

I wore it to dozens of work meetings. It’s not even vintage yet I thought it was stylish.

I used to wear a bright pink long-sleeved t-shirt underneath it. To pick up the threads of pink running throughout the fabric. Or a bright cyan one.

How subtle.

I tried it on today for the the first time since about the fall of 2004, when I wore the jacket almost every week. I thought it might go well with a yellow t-shirt I had on.

Guess where it looked like I was heading?

To a used car lot. And/or the circus. And/or a late 70s, early 80s retro party. And/or to O’Neil’s Pub to begin my shift as Lady Leprechaun.



close-up of green jacket fabric 

close-up of green jacket fabric




I don’t know why I held on to this for almost five years. I’m usually so good about pruning out old, out-of-style clothes.

Maybe I thought I might need it one St. Patrick’s Day. Or that the guy who once asked me where I got it so he could tell his wife to go get one, too? I must have thought he was sincere. (I’m so easily duped; he worked for me at the time.)


So, this is my good-bye to the green jacket. It’s added a spot of color to the blacks, browns, and grays in my closet.

The time has come for me and my inner high school sophomore to part ways. I’ll try not to be ashamed that it took so long for me to let you go.



Me in the green jacket one last time



POSTSCRIPT: Maybe I should have taken a straw poll before I decided that the jacket was hideous. Is it as bad as it seems to me?




-Related to post Death Of A Short Green Sweater.

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Pink Shoe, pen and ink and marker paint on graph paper,
doodle © 2008 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.

 

It’s not the first pink shoe I’ve loved.

The first would be a pair I bought for $3 at a garage sale. Nineteen-forties, pointy toe, with a bow. Still in the original shoe box.





“Love” is too strong of a word. That’s what I’ve been ruminating on now for days. It’s embarrassing to admit to love a thing when people are sick, the war rages, buying power drops, gas prices rise, the Pope blesses, spring blows in.

Isn’t this what’s wrong with the world? We love our things too much.

Last night my daughter was searching in her chest of drawers for a shirt and pair of pants to wear to Spirit Day today at school. She was to dress all in white. I half anticipated that she’d come to me in a panic — I don’t have white pants!! — insisting we run to Target to get some.

I rehearsed in my head the talk I’d deliver. You want to spend money on a pair of white pants that you can wear one day while people are dying, families don’t have enough food…and on and on. 

She appeared a few minutes later with a white tee and a pair of brown pants from last summer. Turns out she has more depth than I gave her credit for. I’m the one wedded to my things.





I bought this pair of shoes two years ago in a San Francisco boutique, the kind of store where it’s not unusual for the salespeople to talk to eachother, as if you’re not there, during the entire course of a fitting. The shoes were regularly $200, on sale half-off. They were tight, but I knew the leather would stretch eventually.

I don’t buy shoes lightly. The last pair I bought is a European brand, normally expensive, that I found at TJ Maxx for less than $30. That was an exception. My spine doesn’t love poorly-shod feet.

Shoes aren’t the only objects I admire. I love lamps. I own more tables than anyone I know — I just gave away two. Furniture is like art to me. I have an enamel chair that sits unused against a wall. It reminds me of easel and painting rolled into one.

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, with his “Ode to things,” gave me permission to embrace my own love of things. As I read of “shapely shoes” and “the softness of a woman’s hip,” I knew my appreciation for things was different from greed or desire. It is love for beauty.

Inspired by Neruda, I wrote my own ode.







ode to a pink shoe

graceful as a ballerina
slipper
big toe caress
supple cowhide
made in italy
narrow long
aristocratic limbs

it holds me
moves me
carries me
across asphalt ocean
and gravel dreams
stained by travel
to carnival skies

a flamenco
dancer
cotton candy chamois
toe nail polish
fine foot fetish
fine latin lover
cha-cha-cha possibility

swim with me
in lucid night
say it slow
zapa-tera
know not
what i mean
walk slowly now

dream soft scent
and roses
underground
long stride
stretch limosine
mary kay superstar
pink shoe cadillac



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Green Sweater and Tunic, my current fashion obsession, pen and
pencil doodle © 2007 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.


I was one of those girls in high school who latched on to a particular look and didn’t drop it for a couple of years. My devices back then: painter pants, waffle stompers, and any one of my brother’s flannel shirts.

I still remember a pair of olive green trousers that became my signature article of clothing when I was in my early twenties. They were gabardine with tiny knots of wool, tight and narrow at the waist and legs yet super baggy in the lap. I wore them all fall and winter for three years, often with black lace-up Victorian-style shoes.

Later, I graduated to cowboy boots and oversized long-sleeved t-shirts and long skirts. I stuck with the boots until everyone and their mother started wearing them, at which point I promptly parted ways with my inner cowgirl.

My thirties were spent traipsing around in tight-fitting clothes. I was size 2 or 4 for most the decade, and I loved showing off my hips and waist. Short tops, fitted blouses, strappy sandals, leg-hugging black go-go boots.

I still have a bag of clothing from that era, but besides not being able to fit into any of it I worry that I’d resemble a middle-aged prostitute if I actually attempted wearing anything from back then.

These days my uniform is a tunic topped with a short, tight sweater. Preferably the green sweater I got two years ago at Target, made by that designer Isaac somebody. It’s wash and wear, and the color has held up remarkably well until just recently given that I throw it in the dryer each week.

It’s the kind of uniform that satisfies the Gemini in me. Long and flowing yet short and fitted. The tunics I’ve picked up all over the place — Marshalls in Phoenix or Ross Dress-for-Less on Coors. A couple are vintage, from Buffalo Exchange (which I frequent when I’m not mad at the “buyers” for turning up their noses at my used clothing).

At the moment I’m wishing I would have bought two or three of my beloved Target sweaters, as mine is finally (finally!) fading around its ribbed edges. I wish I would have bought it in pink, my next favorite color after green.

It dawns on me that once my sweater dies, I might have to figure out a new look. Nothing too saucy or young-looking. Nothing frumpy. (God forbid frumpy.) It’s a delicate balance for a woman my age. If anyone has suggestions, I’m open.

What should be my next signature piece? Or do I quick, search for a green sweater replacement? And what of tattoos for women in their mid-forties? Are they as desperate-seeming as I think they are? And while on the topic, can someone tell me, do men work on their looks? (Because Jim’s aging hippie thang seems to come completely naturally to him.)

Geez, all this and frizzy hair, to boot. It’s amazing I made it to work today.


       

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