Fashion victim
I have an… idiosyncratic mode of dress. Half pure practicality, half what I happen to like—and what I happen to like bears no relationship whatever to what I am supposed to like.
I can behave myself when I have to; I have adequate supplies of nylon hosiery, unobjectionable shoes, dresses that meet standards for professional wear, and even (ugh) makeup. It is my privilege, however, that most of the time I don’t have to. Dress-code at MPOW is jeans and one step up from T-shirts.
Pawing through my closet the other day, I found a caftan bought from a catalog ’way back in the day and barely ever worn, because it just felt too pretty for regular wear. Hell with that, I thought, and wore it yesterday. With, because I am a practical woman with very picky feet and I walk the mile and a half to work and the mile and a half back, black socks and my workhorse Munros.
Yes. I wear socks with dresses. You may all point and laugh now. Then go find the most uncomfortable pair of shoes in your closet, wear nylons with them, and walk a mile and a half somewhere. That’s why I wear socks with dresses. Even my best pair of sandals, which is pretty good, leaves blisters right under the ball of my foot. (Got one now, as a matter of fact, from last weekend.)
Anyway, someone stopped me during yesterday morning’s walk to work to gush over the caftan and ask where I’d gotten it. In the course of a day’s meetings (which for me involves even more walking—this is a big campus), I attracted quite a few curious glances. I’m used to that. As I said, my fashion sense is… unusual.
So I didn’t actually take note of any of it until I passed a coed on my walk home. Said shiksa had the raccoon-eyes, low-slung pants, and tight shirt that proclaimed strict adherence to fashion dicta—and the look on her face proclaimed “OMG somebody get the fashion victim out of my sight stat!” clearer than words.
Whatever. I bet her feet hurt.