For most of my 'womanly' years, I have hated the pressure of having to look right, dress up, or get jazzed up for any special event. The reason for this may be the not so evident inner desire to not be noticed, or it may be the more evident desire not to have to pay for someone else's standard of what the term appropriately dressed means.
I went to university during the early 1970's, which in Canada was actually the tail end of the revolutionary 1960's in the rest of the world. As the histrionic student unrest hit Canadian campuses, the fashion of looking like one who came off of some boat carrying immigrants from Central Europe in the 1930s was preferred if you didn't want pamphlets in your face and 'would be' Trotskyites following you around. Therefore, being Forever in Blue Jeans , and blue jeans with a tee shirt worn with or without a bra (male or female) were accepted and expected campus fashion statements.
I worked as a professional during the later 1970's and the worst part of my job was finding clothes that FIT! I was neither over nor under weight, nor exceptionally tall or short, but I was not built for the styles available to most of the other young women my age. There was something about being raised on meat and potatoes and working on the farm , along with the combined genetics of not so little grandmothers , that did something to my body that made my shoulders too wide, my legs too short, my feet too big, and my waist non existent to be able to easily buy youthful looking clothes right off the rack. I remember once, after finally finding a style of dress slacks that fit properly, buying four pair, one of every colour, for cash.
Then along came marriage, motherhood, maternity and mayhem. With marriage and motherhood there came the need to economise on fashion, which wasn't all that difficult as I never really left the role nor the house for about 8 years. Who cared how the Mama looked as long as she was clean and covered? A wise friend once told me that it would have been more inappropriate if the children were poorly dressed and the mother the fashion plate.
At least every couple of years in the 1980's my wardrobe did change as the maternity clothes were brought out for six month spells at a time. Haute Couture had nothing on me for seasonal adjustments to proper attire.
My standard of having enough clothes in those days was primarily having one pair of black slacks that weren't either too tight or too loose, were clean (not necessarily ironed), and had the hem at the cuff at least duct taped up; along with a blouse that did not gape when the buttons were done ; and a pair of dress shoes that if when you wore them with socks no one would notice. Those knee high nylons just did not last long enough nor were they warm enough to justify buying them on a regular basis. This outfit would be considered my 'going to town, church, and out to supper ' attire and served me well well into the early 2000's.
Yes, there were some fashion faux pas' no doubt. I do remember wearing rubber boots to the city with knee high blue jean culottes. I wore a Mickey Mouse over sized tee shirt over my bathing suit for years at the lake; which other than the age inappropriate graphics, was probably considered a wise and welcome choice by many. The once in every one's life memory of wearing something inside out to church , school, and/or town occurred in every venue mentioned during those frantic years where the goal of merely arriving was considered the achievement.
In a small town in rural Canada high fashion on a daily basis is not really expected or required in most businesses . Grocery store clerks usually have a type of uniform, clerks in hardware stores gas stations, and restauranteurs often wear aprons or coveralls.* The only place in town that one might encounter someone actually dressed up as an employee is the Bank , and that is the first place I headed upon my arrival in town that fateful fashion faux pas day.
I remember going through the glass doors of this monetary home of the fashion savvy and efficiently manicured bank clerks and suddenly--- I was LIMPING. Not just a bit -- but quite a bit.
Was I suffering a stroke?
Had I tripped?
Was someone playing a cruel joke on me?
No. None of the above.
I looked down at my legs and feet and with terror I realized that ...
..... I was wearing two different shoes.
To be fair they were of the same colour and ilk--both slip on type. No, I had not laced one up and ignored the other. They were both outdoor shoes. They were not slippers--neither ballet nor bedroom.
*I should clarify -- waitresses in small town cafes do NOT wear coveralls--well, not often and not well and often not willingly.
I went to university during the early 1970's, which in Canada was actually the tail end of the revolutionary 1960's in the rest of the world. As the histrionic student unrest hit Canadian campuses, the fashion of looking like one who came off of some boat carrying immigrants from Central Europe in the 1930s was preferred if you didn't want pamphlets in your face and 'would be' Trotskyites following you around. Therefore, being Forever in Blue Jeans , and blue jeans with a tee shirt worn with or without a bra (male or female) were accepted and expected campus fashion statements.
I worked as a professional during the later 1970's and the worst part of my job was finding clothes that FIT! I was neither over nor under weight, nor exceptionally tall or short, but I was not built for the styles available to most of the other young women my age. There was something about being raised on meat and potatoes and working on the farm , along with the combined genetics of not so little grandmothers , that did something to my body that made my shoulders too wide, my legs too short, my feet too big, and my waist non existent to be able to easily buy youthful looking clothes right off the rack. I remember once, after finally finding a style of dress slacks that fit properly, buying four pair, one of every colour, for cash.
Then along came marriage, motherhood, maternity and mayhem. With marriage and motherhood there came the need to economise on fashion, which wasn't all that difficult as I never really left the role nor the house for about 8 years. Who cared how the Mama looked as long as she was clean and covered? A wise friend once told me that it would have been more inappropriate if the children were poorly dressed and the mother the fashion plate.
At least every couple of years in the 1980's my wardrobe did change as the maternity clothes were brought out for six month spells at a time. Haute Couture had nothing on me for seasonal adjustments to proper attire.
My standard of having enough clothes in those days was primarily having one pair of black slacks that weren't either too tight or too loose, were clean (not necessarily ironed), and had the hem at the cuff at least duct taped up; along with a blouse that did not gape when the buttons were done ; and a pair of dress shoes that if when you wore them with socks no one would notice. Those knee high nylons just did not last long enough nor were they warm enough to justify buying them on a regular basis. This outfit would be considered my 'going to town, church, and out to supper ' attire and served me well well into the early 2000's.
Yes, there were some fashion faux pas' no doubt. I do remember wearing rubber boots to the city with knee high blue jean culottes. I wore a Mickey Mouse over sized tee shirt over my bathing suit for years at the lake; which other than the age inappropriate graphics, was probably considered a wise and welcome choice by many. The once in every one's life memory of wearing something inside out to church , school, and/or town occurred in every venue mentioned during those frantic years where the goal of merely arriving was considered the achievement.
In a small town in rural Canada high fashion on a daily basis is not really expected or required in most businesses . Grocery store clerks usually have a type of uniform, clerks in hardware stores gas stations, and restauranteurs often wear aprons or coveralls.* The only place in town that one might encounter someone actually dressed up as an employee is the Bank , and that is the first place I headed upon my arrival in town that fateful fashion faux pas day.
I remember going through the glass doors of this monetary home of the fashion savvy and efficiently manicured bank clerks and suddenly--- I was LIMPING. Not just a bit -- but quite a bit.
Was I suffering a stroke?
Had I tripped?
Was someone playing a cruel joke on me?
No. None of the above.
I looked down at my legs and feet and with terror I realized that ...
..... I was wearing two different shoes.
To be fair they were of the same colour and ilk--both slip on type. No, I had not laced one up and ignored the other. They were both outdoor shoes. They were not slippers--neither ballet nor bedroom.
*I should clarify -- waitresses in small town cafes do NOT wear coveralls--well, not often and not well and often not willingly.
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