Fashion Fighter

I hate shopping.  Just do.  I don’t shop, I hunt.

I need this thing.  This store should have it.  Enter.  Target acquired.  Purchase made.  Escape!

Sometimes shopping takes more time than I’d like.  So I try to have fun along the way.

One of these ways is fighting the fashion treadmill.

But first: What the heck is fashion?

It’s culture.  It helps define ourselves within our tribe, our generation, our clique.

If my peers and role models are wearing sweaters with yellow tassels, then I’m going to have to wear yellow tassels.

If the fashion models in Paris are all wearing pink leather boots, I’m going to do my best to be the first one on my street with pink leather boots.  No matter what.

All the boots and sweaters that I bought last year are out of style.  Throw them out!

I’d rather move than show my buddies that I’m out of style.  I’d rather die than show my friends I’m out of step with fashion.

These are the thoughts of today’s typical young woman.

How can I justify such a sexist statement?

By showing you some rock-hard data.  For instance, how many billions of dollars are spent each year advertising “style” directly to young women?

A lot.

How many chain stores, fashion brands and accessory items exist specifically catering to women, young women?  How often do these stores adjust their inventory so that they remain in sync with the latest fashion trends?

A lot.  And at least 4 times a year.

Which brings me back to the whole purpose of this story.  I hate shopping!

One of the things I do to amuse myself during the agony of shopping is doing my best to fight the fashion treadmill, in any way.  For instance…

I was out shopping for gloves today, and overheard a father-son team bantering about how nice a certain charcoal-gray hat looked.  The father was trying it on.

As fashion police, his wife chimed in with…

“No one would ever wear that to work.”

“I would,” I say to myself, still busy looking at gloves.

Her husband responds.  “I would.  It’s comfortable and looks good.”

“It doesn’t fit the style of your overcoat,” she says.

I’m thinking, “But it will keep him warm and dry and looks pretty good.”

I move closer to the group as potential backup for the embattled male ego.

The wife delivers a second punch.  “No one really wears those things,” she says.

My opening!

“I do.” I chime in quietly, uninvited, and acting demure.  I’m looking at the other hats.

She lets me into the conversation!

“You do?” she says, giving me a polite smile.  I can see that I can’t push too much – there are daggers buried in those looks!

The husband looks genuinely pleased to see me come to his aide.  He is fondling the hat.

“Sure!” I repeat to her, though not too eagerly so that she sees through my ploy.  I continue.

“I have two stetsons very similar to this.  One brown and one black.”

“And you wear these to the office?”

“Most certainly.”

I smile and retreat.  I’ve given him all the help I can safely give without getting either of us in deep trouble.

I find my gloves and get out.

Ah, another male ego supported in the wilds of nature.  And one small push against the evils of the fashion treadmill.

I feel satisfied!

 

 

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