I'm Just Saying

I’ve recently found a few positives to this whole economy-going-to-hell thing. I’ve figured out that a Qtip of acetone will take the Baby Phat right off the side of $9.99 sunglasses, and that Burlington is not literally a coat factory. Who knew? I’ve discovered a great shoe repair shop and am now friends with the nice cashier—the one with the platinum roots and ink black ponytail. (She has graciously offered to show me how to do my own ear candling, and make stylish bracelets out of my own hair.) I am now buying Old Navy three packs of panties (okay, I’ve always done that). I’ve reconnected with my college love—Ramen Noodles with spray butter and parm. And, I’ve uncovered a great little place to find something to wear to upcoming holiday cocktail parties. My closet. Again, who knew?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to wear a pair of jeans until they break off mid leg and surrender into knee length shorts. (Which, for the record, is never a good look for me or anyone else with a bubble butt and Chihuahua calves.) Nor am I opposed to tripling the same outfit in a week, if it’s cute enough and the crowds vary. But for some reason, special occasion attire has always been a wear once kind of deal for me. Until now. No longer will I spend out of control to look good for one night. I mean, after cabernet number three I can feel pretty in a tutu and tube socks (trust me, I know).

Last week I opened an invite to a holiday cocktail party, and I instinctively started clearing off my Saturday schedule to swing from boutique to boutique slinging my Amex around like a Chinese throwing star. Then I remembered that there are people out there without jobs. Then I remembered that I was one of them. (In today’s fiscal climate “freelance writer” is polite for “broke ass writer.”) In desperation I started to mentally scan my closet for options. As it turns out, every viable item was ironically something I had purchased for a similar holiday party last year, or the year before, and had not worn since.

Because the experience is such a big part of shopping for me, I decided to have some fun with it. I put on a some French folk music, softened the lights and paid my nine-year-old a fudge pop to sit on the edge of my bed and tell me how each outfit was “made for me,” offer up accessory suggestions, and explain how some brands just “run small.”

I pulled out anything lace, anything low cut, and anything shiny from the back of my closet. After just thirty minutes I settled on winter white trousers, a sleeveless cowl neck sweater in cream, and a dangly pair of earrings I’d forgotten about. I even unearthed some strappy heels with glued-on fake pearls I’d purchased a few years ago to wear to a friend’s wedding.

And. Done.

Just one small glitch. This whole crap-bag economy thingy has also forced me to cut out pedicures, brow waxes, spray tans, teeth whitening treatments, Aquaban anti bloat pills, Spanx, Aveda, monthly highlights, and good red wine that doesn’t turn my lips amethyst. But I am not going to let any of that stop me from showing up with my head held high.

I will see you there, and we will have a fabulous time.

I’ll be the puffy pale one sausaged into yellowing high-waisted high-waters. No, no, it’s not a fright wig leftover from Halloween, it’s my natural hair. Yes, that’s me with the one long eyebrow, crusty old-man feet shoved into cheap bridesmaids shoes, taupe teeth, and—what my friend Tracey refers to as—a crazy red wine Joker smile. Don’t be scared. I assure you, I’m not one bit bitter about your new party dress, cashmere wrap and perfectly tended-to toes. I honestly marvel over recession proof professions, and am seriously considering getting me one someday. So please, do stop me and say hello. And then, maybe, fill my Solo cup to the rim with some of that good wine your drinking.