Wardrobe Woes
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Wardrobe Woes By Wanda Hillsbery, November, 2002 As I was preparing for our Thanksgiving feast, it hit me - I have nothing to wear! Despite the fact that my closet rod sags, every garment in there is either too big, too small, faded, stained, or part of one of the three outfits I have been wearing since spring. I had to act. It didn’t matter to me that all three of my daughters were home for a dreaded in-service day. I threw them all into my minivan and headed to the nearest one-day sale on a quest for a new pair of jeans and a few snappy tops. An hour later I was crammed into a handicapped dressing room with twelve outfits and my own personal panel of critics. My girls were sitting on the bench, lined up like spectators at a ball game, cheering and jeering as I tried on the various selections. Now, I am forty-three years old and a number of undisclosed pounds overweight. I do not, therefore, have high expectations of rave reviews but I was still surprised by what came out of my own loving family; “Wrong color, Mom.” “Not your style Mom,” and finally, addressing my bulging thighs, “Oh man Mom! – That is way too young for you!”. Despite the dismal evaluations, I exited the dressing room with two items that I loved; a pair of black jeans, and a snuggly sweater in my favorite holiday color – bright cranberry red. It was then, as I scanned the registers for the shortest line, that I heard my oldest offspring pipe up with what sounded like a loudspeaker announcement… “Mom we really need to go get you underwear now because you sure do have some big holes in yours!” I shrank to the size of my small, un-manicured pinky. Why, I wondered, had I thought I could go clothes shopping with three small children? More importantly, what happened to the old me? – the perky, highlighted blond with the cutting-edge wardrobe? Why hadn’t I realized until now that I was wearing panties that resembled something I used to polish my car with? I trace it back to my first pregnancy. The earliest things to go were my hair foils and long acrylic nails. If alcohol and diet cokes were damaging to my developing fetus I was not going to go near those salon chemicals. Next I gave up high-end skin care products. When you have that pregnancy glow, concentrated mainly in the T zone, who cares about anti-wrinkle moisturizers? Still, I was fussy enough about my apparel to scamper down to Valley Fair Mall for the hottest maternity fashions. I liked how I looked in my balloon tops at first but after seven months in the same five outfits, I refused to even look at myself in the mirror. I am five foot one inch tall. I was a meatball. Looking back on it, I was headed downhill. Maternity leave is a magical time for some, for me it was a pajama fest. Part of it was the baby weight. I thought it would evaporate in the delivery room but since it had not, I stayed in my jammies. Besides, with midnight feedings and afternoon naps, it was too hard to keep track of day vs night attire anyway. I didn’t go out much. Who can get to the store or the hairdresser when there is a newborn in the house? When I did get out I was usually un-showered, with stains on the front of my shirt. I told myself it was a sign of being a good mom. Eventually though, even I had to admit that it was time to purchase some unsullied, larger clothing. I discovered Target. There is immense satisfaction in being able to pick up shorts, shoes, diapers and formula all in one store. I sacrificed a little style for convenience but who cared. I’d only be wearing these clothes for a few short months, right? After my third pregnancy I quit my job and our income was cut in half. In turn, my Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, and even my Mervyns’s cards were cut in half. I had tons of excuses for looking as haggard as I felt. “It’s too hard to go shopping with three kids.” “I can’t make appointments and find an available babysitter.” “I don’t have the money.” “I have to lose ten pounds and then I’ll go shopping.” My ultimate excuse was: “I’m a stay at home mom, I don’t need to worry about my image anymore.” It was hard to get motivated when my husband came home from a hard day’s work, put on his flannel boxers and went to town with the remote control. Who cared if I didn’t look like Princess Di – just look at him! I was forced to admit that I had stretched the clothing meant to last a few months into a wardrobe that endured for half a decade. I had to reassess. I am no longer a new mother. I am never going to get my pre-pregnancy figure back. My husband has gotten raises since we “cut the budget” and there is room in there for me. I intend to take full advantage of this. My next stop is Victoria’s Secret. I am going there in search of the perfect panty – perhaps something in bright cranberry red! About the Author: Wanda Hillsbery has lived in San Jose for nine years. A few years ago, she quit her high paying job to stay home and take care of her husband, three young daughters, and two old dogs. She reconsiders her decision daily. © siliconmom
