Something Up My Sleeve
When I was little, I had this incredible floral dress, smocked on the front, which I adored. Green-blue ditsy print? Check. Peter Pan collar? Check. Lacy trim? Check. Long puffy sleeves? Check. I was so keen on this dress that I wore it for days and refused to give it up in exchange for clean clothes. Eventually, my mother had to wrestle it off me, but it continued to be a favourite until it was thread-bare and too small for me. I miss that dress. Well, let me clarify: I don’t really want to wear a little girl’s summer dress these days, but I would like to find clothes that make me feel the way that dress made me feel. Ah well. Perhaps that kind of fever-pitch adoration is specific to childhood. Maybe I do want to wear a little girl's summer dress after all.
Or what about that excellent red pinafore - the one emblazoned with Scottish terriers, that inevitably went along with matching tights and a little white shirt, and shiny buckled shoes. I would absolutely wear that dress today - sure, maybe I’d skip the dog-printed tights and the patent leather mary janes, but I would wear a nice plaid pinafore every day forever if it were socially acceptable (and maybe even if it weren’t.) These days, you may be surprised to learn that it is not common to find adult women’s clothing that feature black and white terriers in a jolly little line, trimming a skirt, more’s the pity. At some point, we all decided that we no longer wanted velour kitten sweatshirts or giraffe pajamas, much to my sadness and confusion. I long for vibrantly coloured stirrup pants and denim bucket hats, with big daisies on the front. Or how about my first pair of jeans, embroidered and emblazoned as they were with lobsters on the pockets? Who among us doesn’t want lobster jeans?
I am being facetious - but only slightly. Perhaps it isn’t the specifics of the clothing - the animal designs, the bizarre embroidery, the coordinated outfits - it’s the way those clothes meant only joy, only feeling like myself, only satisfaction before I tore off to make magic potions in the bathroom sink or organise a safari in my backyard. These days, of course, jeans do not immediately spark joy, with or without lobsters: they induce panic and fretting, and sometimes quite a lot of math. Am I this size or this size? No one knows, and no one can know - sizing for women’s clothing is one of our universe’s greatest mysteries, like quantum physics and the Crazy Frog song. When faced with impenetrable sizing systems and endless choices, all dubious - high-waisted, low-rise, skinny, straight, barrel-leg, wide-leg, stretch, distressed, selvege, vintage, boot-cut, flare, cropped, ankle, shaping, five-pocket, acid-wash, dark-wash, light-wash, jeggings - maybe embroidered lobsters would be welcome. Perhaps we could use cheerful crustacean friends to guide us through an ocean of jeans.
Anne goes basically feral about the ideal dress - puffed sleeves and all - and I think, especially in this modern world of fast fashion, of vanity sizing, of the tyranny of choice - perhaps we might like very much the simplicity of having only three dresses, as Anne does, and an extra special one for Christmas - puffed sleeves or not.
Jennifer