Clothing Optional

Whenever I think I don't know how to dress, I go to the airport. It is in that setting that I am able to get straight about fashion. That is, I can quickly see that few people know how to dress. Even when about to board a plane, perhaps to visit a loved one, see an exciting new town/country, walk into an interview, or comfort someone who has experienced great loss, clothing thoughtlessness is rampant.

I look around at those assembled near the departure gate and I am stunned. What happened to these people when they got up this morning and looked in their closets? Were they still asleep? It is not possible that all of them are color blind, stripes and checks impaired. Do I spy pajamas? Is that underwear posing as outerwear? Does that young woman know how cold it gets on a plane and that her postage stamp sized shorts won't lengthen automatically?

There's a little girl, perhaps three years old, who hasn't quite reached the liberating age of dressing herself. I bet she has opinions that are strong and maybe not worth fighting. She's wearing a tutu. With leggings. Very festive but it may be uncomfortable when sitting on a plane for hours. A good mom brings a change of clothes. Make that several.

Within this mostly motley assemblage, there are a few people who must subscribe to "Vogue" or "Gentleman's Quarterly." Obviously they're going somewhere important. They must be important or believe themselves to be so. Smartly attired in au courant fashions, I wonder if they are so clothed at the grocery store. What am I thinking? They don't go to the grocery store. Much too mundane for their lifestyle.

My dear husband responds to my dress lament with these kind words, "But you never think that." Only all the time. I'm insecure about my choices, too staid to be sensational (not that I seek that sobriquet) and committed to colors that are anything but bright. I am wearing khaki, the all purpose traveling hue.

I've had plenty of advice. Mostly from my fashionista daughter. She moans when she peeks in my closet and only occasionally sees a garment that is appealing. With this reputation it is a wonder that I'm often successful choosing clothes for her. In fact, one of my great joys is seeing her wear something I saw first and couldn't resist buying for her.

One of my daughter's friends, a most special person in both our lives, has written that she enjoys seeing photos of vintage Jackie clothing. I look at some of the photos from the '50's, 60's and '70's and can't help but smile. Maybe fashion sense fades away, like parts of one's memory. Maybe ordinary replaces awesome as practicality becomes more important than style.

My fashion-indifferent husband continued to comment on my dressing dilemma with these words, "Somebody who comes to me for clothing advice must be pretty desperate." He's wrong. Really wrong. Frequently I tote several possible wardrobe selections into his office and ask which one he thinks I should choose for the day. He's good. Really good. A talent vastly underutilized.

I figure that seeking his advice on clothing is somewhat like asking what he wants for dinner. Sometimes daily decisions become too burdensome. A fresh approach revitalizes an otherwise mundane task. After all, he's the one who sees me the most.

We've been talking about apparel intermittently and last night he asked a question for which I had no informed answer. Discussing the 60's, he pondered when women stopped wearing girdles. I just don't remember but suspect it may have coincided with the incorporation of pantyhose into ladies' lives.

As a young lady, I owned multiple girdles. No extra padding was required. I was amply supplied by nature. My girdles tortured my physique in shades of yellow, white and black. They held up hose and held in skin. Living in the hot and humid South, girdles also inhibited breathing and were gladly shucked as soon as possible.

People watching as I wait for my flight to be announced, I reminisce about earlier days. I first flew in 1964 from Phoenix to the old Dallas Love Field. On that hot August day, I was appropriately encased in a navy pencil skirt (hem falling just below the knee), a sleeveless navy shell, a white jacket (long-sleeved for heaven's sake) with navy piping, and navy three inch pointy-toed heels. And that girdle anchoring my hose. The gloves were in my purse. I would have worn the matching hat but it was back home. Somehow the flight seemed more stylish. I know I was.