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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 twitch?
 
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 dog."
 
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 Jackson interview...
 

©2003 Robin Pastorio-Newman

All material ©2001-2014 Sean Carolan, except as noted.

 







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