Like so many people over the past few years, I've lost the will to groom. The Covid era has bludgeoned all desire to look good right out of me. When all anyone sees of me is my Zoom image, they might suspect I'm chronically disheveled, but they don't actually have to see the frayed cuffs, the tattered underwear, or the lack of proper pants. As a rabid introvert, I'm okay with that. These days, I'd rather feel good than look good.
If I really cared, I could do something about it. The mall is right across the Rillito River, only a short hike away. I can see the Forever 21 sign from the bike path. Walmart is equally close, if I am looking to save pennies and don't care what I buy. Target is nearby as well, if I'm looking for something in the middle. There is no lack of places selling clothing for me to buy.
The reason this issue is on my mind is because I'm going to be doing some traveling soon. I will be seeing old friends in California and family in Oregon. That means people will judge me by my appearance. That is what people do, it's normal. I don't really care to please, but I also don't want to offend.
I used to be able to make just about any garment you could imagine. Even though I've hated to sew since I was nine years old, I always liked designing in three dimensions. However, the only time I would make clothes for myself was when there was an occasion with a deadline. I'd buy the cheapest fabric I could get away with, eyeball the pattern, cut corners on the cutting, stitch it together as fast as possible, wear it once to great fanfare, and then throw it away when it faded, tore, shrank, failed to fit, served its single purpose, or went out of style. I'm not proud of my contribution to the wastestream. And don't get me started on the many acrylic paintings I have dumped in the trash. Oh, well. At least I recycled the stretcher bars and frames.
My distaste for sewing and my desire to wear a certain garment is like the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. The battle has been going for years. When I was younger and I could still see, the force was stronger. I would begrudgingly make myself things to wear, as infrequently as possible, mainly because I was ostensibly in the fashion business. Dressmaker, dress thyself! But if I needed a strapless black velvet gown with a mermaid tail, lime-green vintage chiffon sleeves, and a built-in push-up bra, I could deliver. Now, however, the mmovable object is very set in her ways. Bras of any kind are not on the radar, nor are dresses, mermaid or otherwise.
Even though I have a crummy old plastic sewing machine that still works, the idea of using it to sew clothes for myself makes me want to head for Walmart. It took massive amounts of willpower to sew seat covers for my Dodge Caravan out of the cotton dropcloths that used to be my curtains at the Love Shack. I was almost proud of the job, until I realized I hadn't allowed room for the airbags built into the sides of the front seats. R-i-p-p-p, went the seamripper. Oh, well. Story of my sewing "career."
Speak of which, career is not a word I would apply to my worklife. My former job as a seamstress-slash-dressmaker-slash-failed-fashion designer was one of my least favorite mistakes. On the family Zoom today, my sister reminded me that I'm a volunteer, not a victim. In other words, I chose my path, a fact I cannot deny. Of course, I thanked her. It's so helpful to be reminded that I will never find bread at the hardware store, no matter how many times I try.
Meanwhile, the problem remains. This is how I know I'm an artist. I want to wear certain designs, and I cannot find them in stores because they don't exist except in my mind. I want them, but not enough to make them. And so I wear pajamas.
