Take the other night, for instance. The Editor and I set out on a spontaneous All Saints’ Day evening field trip. He wanted to visit a local cemetery. I wanted to procure a meds refill for my kid. I was feeling impulsive -- my newly decaffeinated mind had just imbibed one whole cup of Balinese java. All bets were off for this adventure.
The first pharmacy was out of the meds, so we headed to the all-nighter, which is in a neighborhood we don't venture into much. Crazy busy, that drug store! Later on, we decided that they're just plain crazy. Long story short, The Editor and I read English differently than the head pharmacist. It took a conversation between him, his staff, and staff at another branch of their own company to get the prescription filled. We waited at the cemetery. All in all, an exciting night.
Thing is, I'm pretty convinced that the trouble the pharmacy counter staff gave us was due, at least partly, to my attire. I was dressed in... oh... an outfit that screamed Used To Be Middle Class Now Bag Lady. Remember, I said this was a spontaneous foray. The Editor commented that I didn't really have a thing for matching clothing. I pointed out that my day-glo orange anklets perfectly matched part of the artwork on my shirt. At any rate, clothing that flies in the barrio of Swamp City is far different than what you can get away with in The Bubble, and I'm mighty glad of that.
I just can't hack the Middle-Aged Mom wear. I've always been a comfort hog, and I don't spend much time and effort toward lookin' better. Turns out at my age that that only works if you're trying to impress the folks livin' under the bridge.
I have friends who are young enough to be my kids. Bless their hearts, when I start whining about how bad I look, they come forward with the sweetest comments. They're excellent liars. Yeah, yeah, I'm still okay with my appearance, but believe me, it's different than it was -- and I know it's different than it will be. So I try not to get too hung up on it, but c'mon -- in this world? We're all inundated with images to emulate. I may be Buddhist, but even more than that, I'm human. Who the heck doesn't want to be smashingly gorgeous?
So anyway, in between slogging through e-mails telling me how to be fantastic and offering to let me try out and tell you about these awesome products that will make me feel like a zillion bucks and look that way, too -- I stumbled on to Buddhaful. It's a newish grassroots company from America's own Middle Earth (Seattle) that's swirling around the globe creating art, music, and fashion.
I glanced through their stuff thinking the thoughts that I usually think lately when it comes to clothes: way cool, but who the heck wants to see a 50-year-old in groovy gear? I'm thinking my preteen would puke (but then, there's hardly a thing I can do lately that doesn't make The Boy cry out "MOM!!" with a look of utter disgust...). I mean, I was rather hippie-ish in my day, yes. A little young to be a bona fide hippie, never mind being raised in The Republic instead of Haight-Ashbury, but I did a pretty good rendition.
On a lark, I asked Buddhaful if they'd be so kind... figurin' I'd never hear back. Just as well. I'm fine, trudgin' through Swamp City in my decades-old thrift store wear. Nothing to see here...
Look what those nice people at Buddhaful sent me:
It's très groovy, and of course, I totally dig the meaning of the design. Even better -- the material it's made from! Feels like a soft embrace and makes even the crankiest, decaffeinated middle-aged mama feel... sexy. Now the only question is where to wear it. I'm saving it for someplace special.
Moral of the story: Remember when you're trying to pigeonhole a bag lady, she might just have an Isis hidden inside that you're not seein'. In other words, looks not only can be but are deceiving.