There were many requests to see Rich in his pajamas, although out of context, i.e., not at the airport, it loses something. Suffice it to say that they are basically high water (they come all the way down to mid-calf) navy blue sweat pants with little geriatric pills of fuzz on them from too much living and big maize letters that read you-know-what. Not SPARTANS. (Are the Spartans still playing or have they disbanded for the year?).
This single pair of sweatpants is Rich’s standard issue for anytime he’s not dressed in a double breasted suit to present a multi-million dollar project to a large beverage company in Switzerland. Whenever he is home I get to see him in these pants- sleeping, watching TV, working in his home office and yes, more than once, in the first class section of airplanes. I would throw them out but it would lead to a level of marital discord that would be intolerable, mainly because it would go on for years. He’s still ticked off, three years later, that I threw out his Ecco walking shoes with giant holes in the soles.
Poor Rich is having a fashion crisis anyway. He’s joined an agency where he is the oldest employee by about fifteen years. The CEO is forty. Everyone else is 17 or 18, as far as I can tell from the company picnic where we were the only two people wearing glasses. Rich is the chief strategy officer- he’s like a mentor to all these young people. They practically worship him and his reputation in the world of sports research and demographics. But he thinks they are wondering about his wardrobe.
Fashion-wise, Rich has moved into the world of the metrosexuals. These are hip, dynamic, ahead-of-the-game, well-paid youngsters who all look like they could
moonlight as Calvin Klein models. They look like this guy. So, Rich keeps mumbling that he needs to go shopping. I think he should give it up. He’s plenty cute, he’s too old to make it as a metrosexual and he’ll be fine wandering around Columbus and Wacker, looking slightly professorial. He just needs to lose the sweat pants.
But what do I know? I am the most seriously fashion challenged woman I know and that was true in Ann Arbor; now that I’m in Chicago it’s worse. This is largely because, as previously reported, I’m shopping challenged. I hate to shop. I can’t abide trying on clothes at stores. So, not unlike my husband, I find something that fits and is comfortable and can subsequently be ordered repeatedly over the internet. Eileen Fisher is a good line for me when I need nice clothes. Somehow she manages to design for women in a way that you can have a little 55-year-old-with-a-history-of-c-sections-pooch thing going and still look reasonably chic.
Shoes are my worst nightmare when it comes to dressing. I have 4 pair of identical Tretorns tennis shoes, two pair of identical Taryn Rose low heel shows in different colors and 3 pair of really worn and solid flip flops in my closet. I have one pair of Merrill walking shows by the door. That is all the shoes I want in the rest of this lifetime.
The problem is, this week, I’ve been worrying about shoes. I’m going to my first big social thing in Chicago tonight. It’s a charity ball (for which I do some charity work; I’ve been busy assembling auction booklets and table labels and hence, not here). I worried briefly about a dress but since it’s black tie I defaulted to the Eileen Fisher black velvet number that I already own and hopefully, won’t go out of style for at least 35 years so I could get glammed up in it at my funeral just before I get toasted, alright, enough- back to shoes.
I have embarrassed myself before wearing things like flip flops under fancy dresses and I’ve hosted a formal party or two barefoot. My feet are happy bare. But I figure I actually need shoes with heels for this affair tonight. That these could also be dancing shoes is an oxymoron. I bought some but I’m still on the fence about whether I wear them or not. I may go with my burgundy patent leather flips flops that I save for special occasions.
Speaking of how far people will go, tomorrow my neck of the woods is host to 40,000 runners for the Chicago Marathon. Dan is in Spain so he won’t be running but I’ll go watch part of it anyway. There’s a kletzmer band playing at the cheering station closest to me. A friend from Michigan came by last night and the closest parking spot she could find was 5 blocks away. I think the car stays in the garage this weekend. Pictures tomorrow, of runners and maybe a woman in black velvet and flip flops. Until then, GO TIGERS!
(Since I wrote this post this morning, things on the shoe front are going downhill. I had carelessly tossed my new shoes into the laundry basket in my
closet right after purchasing them- further evidence of my distaste for
heels. Just a bit ago I was modeling my shoes and dress for a friend when she politely noted that I was dragging along a pair of Jockey for Her underpants that had stuck to the velcro closing ankle strap. Nice.)