It’s not the clothes we wear that make us
December 26, 2002
Some things never change. One of them is the trials and tribulations women face each morning when challenged with the daunting task of getting dressed.
For some of us it’s hard enough just to get out of bed.
To then be required to find colors, textures and styles that match is asking a lot from someone with only one eye open.
I’m of the opinion that it does not matter how many new clothes one gets for Christmas, by New Year’s Day there is still nothing in the closet to wear.
It matters not if your closet is standard coat-closet size or movie-star size. What really matters is what size your butt is when you wake up each morning.
Now the logical thinker would say the derriere you go to bed with is the same as the one you wake up with.
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But the logical thinker would be wrong if he — yes when it comes to the size of a butt only men can think logically — were to see the same rear view I see each day.
When getting dressed size matters. Only it’s not just back-size there’s also the tummy to consider, the arms, the shoulders, the wrists, the hands, the finger nails argh!
This really is just too much angst for early morning.
A friend told me the other day as she stepped lightly in her strappy, open-toed pumps, never mind there was three inches of snow on the ground, that her mom told her “you have to suffer to be beautiful.”
This is where I fail.
When grunge came to be no one was happier than I.
I’ve worn out more pairs of men’s flannel boxers in the last 10 years than I have panty hose. My sneakers definitely have more miles on them than my pumps (but I do own some). And my Old Navy fleece has been more places than I can remember.
I do wear makeup and I do do my do. But they only get done once, unless I go kick boxing then some times they get sort of done twice.
Kick boxing is supp0000000sed to help with the rear view, but what it really helps most with is my outlook on life. In 50 minutes time I somehow become a new woman. It may be that there is a sticker on the wall in front of where I do my thing that says “maximum weight limit 350 pounds.” Somehow knowing that I’ve got a ways to go before I reach that limit is comforting or motivating. Seriously though its really a lot of work and it’s just fun.
It breaks up the day, helps keep me from kick boxing my coworkers into submission and reminds me of all those muscles I rarely use.
On the days that I go, it’s the second aerobic activity of my day. The first is changing clothes.
You can work up a pretty good sweat trying on a multitude of outfits one right after the other. Then by the time you’ve folded them up and put them them away and redone your hair and makeup … well let’s just say getting dress is an adventure.
My husband, whose butt size never changes from bedtime to morning time, or year to year for that matter has no idea.
The lack of empathy between man and wife or man and woman is one of the clearly defined differences between the male and female of the species. I’ll never understand why he has to have 100 hats when he only has one head any more than he’ll ever understand why though I live in my tennies yet I’m happiest when I have 200 pairs of shoes.
Kelli Du Fresne is Features Editor for the Nevada Appeal.
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