for February 12, 2003
Bone Tired of Attire
by Your Diva, Robin Pastorio-Newman
In August, 1999, Your Darling Your Diva, Your One True Love found
herself sitting at a bar in Circus Circus, ranting at a complete
stranger. During an international convention of like-minded dipsomaniacs
and after a lengthy breakfast of refreshing greyhounds and even more
refreshing greyhounds, Your Delight was ready for a debate. The stranger
sat down next to her at the bar, introducing himself as a buyer for
women's clothing. That was all it took. Ever heard the Latin phrase In
vino, veritas? It means that words spoken by drunks contain truth. So
Your Pookie's rant bears repeating.
It's so simple: the person or persons creating a line of clothing
fitting actual women's bodies, making men or flat-shoe-wearing
documentary-filmmaking cat-owners purr, will make the gigundo fortune of
the twenty-first century.
"What?" you ask. "Women buy clothes constantly. In fact, Visa,
Mastercard and American Express depend for their livelihoods on my
wife's racking up a new wardrobe every three months." And you would be
right, wouldn't you? Your wife can't wear khaki shorts to work in
December, and she wouldn't be caught dead modeling a woolen suit at the
beach. Your wife is a sensible gal who pays the bills on time and makes
sure your socks match. Why do J. C. Penney one day sales make her
Women have a secret. Their weight changes every day, weight distributes
itself whimsically despite diet and exercise, and almost every woman you
know fights a constant battle to remain decently clothed. A few lucky
women remain the same size from the moment puberty moves on to its next
victim, but most - nearly all - won't be the same shape if you see them
every day, and they're engaged in the female coping version of a WWF
Smackdown to prevent this secret from leaking to the public.
"Wait a second," you say. "How can that be true when the latest styles
show fabulous, nearly pornographic amounts of belly, and Victoria's
Secret touts boy shorts, and only trailer trash and grannies wear
elastic wastebands?" Well, darling, real women - hopefully your wife is
one - spend a lot of time being uncomfortable, and expend tremendous
effort convincing you that's not true. Why? What do we all say about our
opponents? "Never let them see you sweat." In your wife's case, "Never
let your husband of five-ten years know that you will, in fact, and
despite your financial plans, become a little old lady with a purse
Your wife replaces her wardrobe seasonally because women's clothing is
intended by manufacturers to self-destruct rapidly under the stresses
against it. Designers are frustrated by women's bodies' thrilling
curves; through judicious use of bad seams, wussy fabrics and truly
stupid shoes, designers restrict ordinary movement. Women's bodies and
clothing are in direct, unshielded contact with every potentially icky
aspect of family life. Deep down, you know this. When it's hanging in a
closet, without your wife's wondrous form, her clothing looks like rags
you wouldn't wipe down a dashboard with, and it feels like something
you'd touch and know was toxic. Your wife tolerates it because really
good clothing costs a fortune and frankly isn't a whole lot better.
Well-made clothing is mostly passionless dreck for the idle with
servants. Have you ever seen fishnet stockings that bend and stretch to
accommodate the kids' soccer practice and your French maid fantasy? Of
course not. Women are stuck with crappy clothes that fall apart on
impact with the female body, and you foot the bill with a weak,
indulgent smile. She sometimes has sex with you, after all.
Your Adored One - we're talking about me again, and really, isn't it all
about me? - descends from a long line of glamorous, free-thinking,
voluptuous wild women who ran their own businesses and divorced
detractors. From no angle could Your Petite Chou - who stands at 5'2" in
bunny slippers - be considered by the unbiased observer to be a large
person, unless that observer happens to design clothing. All the grooves
and curves of an Alpine pass happen to be normal, delicious affairs of
the Mediterranean physique. Walk into Macy's, and one's only options are
Maternity wear and Plus Sizes. Add to this nonsense the insurance
industry. By that definition, Your Snookums should weigh less on a
regular basis than she could after six months of eating chicken broth
with a fork and a stint at the Auschwitz Fat Farm, and we're sure of
this because grapefruit everywhere cower at the mention of her name.
This is disgraceful. Without even taking into account the obesity
epidemic currently plaguing the United States - worth considering
because more than 50% of your, um, wife must be overweight by
statistical definition - real women with real curves can't buy
comfortable, alluring garments designed to make you sweat. You know it.
Your wife knows it. The fashion industry knows it. So. It's you against
the ridiculous ravages of exorbitant spending and planned obsolescence.
What are you going to do?
It's simple. So, so simple. The person or persons marketing women's
clothing that fits, feels good, and makes women feel like J-Lo behind a
sultry bayou screen door will be the next wealthiest person or
corporation in America.
Now, I'd need a water tower of greyhounds to address last week's Michael
©2003 Robin Pastorio-Newman
All material ©2001-2014 Sean Carolan, except as noted.
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