The Someday Suit
So, I'm cleaning out my closet and run across my Someday Suit. You know the one; you probably have something similar to The Suit, like those favorite jeans, or that little black dress, or a stunning bathing suit you expect to loose 10 pounds and fit back into. But I never even wore The Someday Suit. I bought the gorgeous knit duo on sale at that little shoppe in Le Plaza, you know, the little shoppe with the chic, hip but still age appropriate clothing. The one with the glossy magazine that comes to your house with clothing you can't resist at prices that ought to make the decision not to buy something really easy to make.
It's true, I was lighter then. And younger. And possibly taller by a smidge. Back then I was able to wear high heels, walked with a sturdier gait, and wasn't put off by having something hug my curves. All of my curves. The good ones. So, I bought The Suit, fully intending to make wonderful, impressive, grownup use of it going to the theatre, galleries, luncheon with the ladies (who still do lunch). Only, my life never offered these events to me while all the fashion stars were in alignment.
Instead, my daily chores got me breaking fingernails and ruining manicures, getting bursitis in a knee such that high heels became out of the question, and just plain putting on a few pounds. The Suit went to the back of the closet, still clutching the sales tags dangling on the ends of its hands.
Every time I rifled through my closet for something to wear, I ran across The Suit. It was in my closet like a doomed prisoner waiting for a call from the governor, it's little tags curling at the bottoms like teeny defiant fists. I never found the courage to try it on again.
But, I did find the courage to take it to a consignment shoppe. The shoppe owner was impressed by my taste. She was impressed by the Shoppe that I had bought The Suit in. She was even impressed by its completely pristine cleanliness. Then, she held up the knit skirt and was concentrating on the waistband. She studied the waistband for some time. Then she spoke. “I'm afraid that the elastic in the waistband is rotted and no one will buy this suit. Shall I donate it to charity for you?”
Reality shock set in. Here I had held onto The Suit so that someday I could fit into it and possibly wear it somewhere out of the house. It became a goal for me. It became my Someday Suit. I was going to turn back the hands of time, be thin and tan and tall like never before. Now the waistband is shot. There goes my goal. My Someday is no day. I'll never be what I once was no matter how hard I tried. Who would know if I could even be better than then. There was no SUIT to help me clear the bar.
In the end, I asked the shoppe keeper to try to sell The Suit. It is still my Someday Suit: someday she will sell The Suit and I will get $20.00 for it, my share of the consignment. Frankly, I can use the $20.00. In all those years, I never used The Suit.
Labels: chic, Fit, Someday Suit, weight
posted by jude at
9:12 PM
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