Monthly Archives: December 2006

Perhaps the current styles in women’s clothing aren’t really any more ridiculous than the styles of last year or last decade. Having spent more time than usual in the mall over the past couple of weeks, however, I have my doubts.

We do, at least, seem to be moving away from the stomping-bugs-in-the-corner pointed shoes of the last few years. That would be a good thing, except that they are being replaced by shoes with rounded toes but three- or four-inch heels. The new ones may not be quite as ugly, but they aren’t any easier to walk in.

Then there is the "layered look." One is apparently supposed to wear sweaters over tank tops over short skirts, narrow pants, or leggings. This layering can be done with either long, skinny sweaters or sweaters that stop several inches above the waist. These abbreviated sweaters make no sense to me. I do understand the need to show off one’s belly-button piercings. Still, the whole point of wearing a sweater, which I have always naively imagined to be warmth, seems negated when said garment doesn’t come close to covering one’s tummy.

The layered look, of course, solves this problem with a long tank top that hangs out beneath the sweater. This provides just the right air of sophistication—the same look one might achieve by borrowing from the closet of a small child or wearing a hand-knit sweater from one’s grandmother even though she ran out of yarn before she got it finished.

To some people, the solution is simple and obvious. If you don’t like the look, don’t buy the clothes.

Most of those people are male. The average guy—even the above-average guy—can’t understand why women allow themselves to be such slaves to fashion. They have a point. There are certainly women who seem determined to be fashionable, no matter how awful they may look in the process.

Most of us, however, resist the most extreme styles. We would agree wholeheartedly with the strategy of, "if you don’t like it, don’t buy it." Our preference is to buy more classic styles and stick with them.

There’s just one problem with that approach. It’s finding those classic styles.

For example, I need a new pair of jeans. For the last month, I’ve been trying to find some—ordinary, inexpensive, dark blue, boot-cut jeans, with the waistband located somewhere in the vicinity of my actual waist. It shouldn’t be that hard.

This is what I’ve found in the stores: Low-cut jeans designed for skinny teenagers—not a good choice for those of us whose navel enhancements are stretch marks instead of belly-button ornaments. "Relaxed-fit" jeans that are way too loose. Stretch jeans that are way too tight. "Distressed" jeans that are half worn out—some complete with patches—and look worse than the ragged ones I need to replace. And everywhere, jeans so narrow at the ankle that you almost have to be Cinderella just to get your feet through the openings.

The gods and goddesses of fashion have spoken. These are the jeans that are "in." The stores bow in reverent obedience and order these jeans. And lonely heretics like me wander in the wilderness, hoping to find a stray pair of last year’s pants that might accidentally fit the way I want them to.

I do have one hope left. In January, we’re making a trip to the Southwest. On the way down, we’ll stop at Sidney, Nebraska—the home of Cabela’s, the outdoor outfitters. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a pair of real jeans.

If not, I may have to give up and embrace the newest look of skinny jeans. Or maybe I’ll just go all the way and opt for leggings. They do have leggings at Cabela’s. They just call them "long underwear."

I wonder. Do you suppose one of the "in" colors this year will be camouflage?

One of my most memorable Christmas gifts from childhood was a double wooden desk that our father built for my older sister and me when we were probably three and five. Its two slanted writing surfaces faced one another, each one hinged at the top to allow access to the space inside, each one with its own separate little seat.

My sister still has the desk, which has survived the years well. Her kids used it, and now it’s just the right size for her grandkids. It’s a simple, sturdy little piece of furniture, about knee high to an adult.

When it sat beside the Christmas tree all those years ago, however, to two curious little girls it seemed huge. Wrapped securely (in a blanket, my sister remembers), it was a bulky package that we couldn’t figure out. Its shape suggested a playhouse, but it wasn’t quite that big. A toy box, maybe? A doghouse for Boots?

We wondered. We imagined. We guessed. The one thing we didn’t do was peek.

Our forbearance wasn’t necessarily because we were such virtuous and obedient children—although of course we were. For us, pondering and speculating about the mysterious big gift was part of the fun. Finding out what it was ahead of time would have spoiled the pleasure of Christmas morning.

A few years later, my youngest sister, age three and a little shaky yet about the ethics of keeping secrets, told me a few days before Christmas what my main gift would be. I remember trying very hard not to listen, but she was so excited about her news that she shouted to make sure I could hear her even with my hands over my ears. I worried for the next week, not sure I was up to the thespian challenge of acting surprised when I unwrapped the package.

(Just in case you’re wondering, yes, I have long since forgiven my sister for her innocent transgression. She didn’t know any better or mean any harm. Besides, some years later her son decided to arrive in the world on Christmas Eve, just in time to deprive her of the big family dinner and gift-opening. What goes around does eventually come around.)

I can remember even as a little girl being shocked at two of my cousins, who waited till their mother was out of the house, then partially unwrapped their Christmas gifts. After seeing enough to find out what the gifts were, they wrapped them up again. The sneakiness of this was appalling to me. What I really didn’t understand, though, was how they could deliberately ruin their own fun by making sure there were no surprises under their tree.

All this is by way of explaining to my kids why I never took them to see Santa Claus when they were little. I never had them make Christmas lists or write letters to Santa. It seemed too much like abetting greed and selfishness. But above all, it would have spoiled the surprises. Where’s the fun of opening a gift if you already know what it’s going to be?

No doubt Christmas shopping would be easier if everyone made lists. But, even though it can be frustrating, part of the fun of gift-giving is in figuring out what people might like—being alert for hints, having secret conversations with other family members, sleuthing, and hiding gifts. Then, on Christmas morning, the pleasure is doubled, because the only thing more fun than opening one’s own surprise gifts is watching other people open theirs.

Merry Christmas, and may all your surprises be happy ones.