Most of Ms. Rachow’s sophisticated style sense comes from what she learned as a kid in 4-H, but that doesn’t stop her from pointing out this isn’t fashion’s finest year.
My husband and I have forsaken our Friday night movie date to go clothes shopping. Now it’s finally dawning on him that all women’s tops this year are cut to make the wearers look preggers.
“This is hideous,” he says. He holds up what appears to be a maternity blouse designed by the same folks who gave us The Strip in Las Vegas.
If that weren’t bad enough, it seems some high roller of the fashion world must’ve lost a major bet and was thus forced to use millions of yards of garish synthetics in all colors too bright for the Crayola box.
Add an array of bold geometric prints, throw in a few mountains of metallic embroidery, and you have the fashion fiasco of 2008.
The last time clothing for women was this ugly was 1972, another year when designers across America felt that it’d be cute if all the ladies looked like pregnant cocktail waitresses.
If by some chance you’ve been spared seeing the spring line this year, save yourself the horror. But if you must have a taste of what’s out there, pretend the ’70s are back in all their polyester glory. Imagine every woman with child. Then dump Costco Rainbow Cake Icing over everything.
Normally, if I saw such a toxic spill in a department store, I’d call the style HAZMAT team and forget about buying new clothes until these heroes of good taste had tidied things up.
However, tonight my situation is desperate. Trainer James Kentro has been cracking the whip at the gym, so my last year’s wardrobe is sagging again. The time has come. Either I put on a red nose and get a gig as a clown, or I find smaller clothes.
“Leave it to me,” I say. “Finally I have a waist again, and it’s the same season some genius decided ‘Maternity Wear for All’ is the design slogan of the year.”
My husband is of a rare breed. There are a lot of guys who, when women’s apparel is mentioned, will develop an intense need to run to the hardware store for parts to fix that leaky faucet in the guest bathroom. This kind of man also deserves adoration and high praise.
But the kind of guy who is an automatic shoo-in for sainthood is the one who’ll go clothes shopping with his wife…and without a whimper.
I’m proud to say my husband is always ready to brave the boutiques with me. No doubt, much of his enthusiasm has to do with his desire to limit the damage on his credit card.
Nevertheless, he’s a talented shopper who dedicates himself to understanding my list of personal no-no’s. No pleats. No puckers. No plaid. No prints. No pastels. No polyester. He avoids everything with the letter “p” like a pro.
So we wade through this disaster area, betting we can find something that is wearable. However it looks hopeless, and our luckless shopping expedition is doing him in. The store has a fainting couch for wilting men. Mine is now reclining there with his forearm over his eyes.
Meanwhile, by wild chance, I discover an ordinary pair of jeans worth the gamble, and I head to the dressing room to try them on.
My husband prays I won’t come out looking like I have a baby on board, which would not be a good look at my age.
There’s another woman in the cubicle next to mine. She’s talking through the door to her husband who’s loyally waiting at the entrance to the changing area.
“How’s it going in there?” he asks.
“Well, the color of this top is awful, and it makes me look like I’m about to deliver twins,” she says.
“But otherwise it’s okay?” he asks in soothing tones, and I know this guy has plans to stay happily married forever.
I have the jeans on, and they don’t look bad, even in this store mirror. I come out to model and get the expert’s opinion.
“Do these make me look fat?” I ask.
“Darling, you look fabulous.” He already has his hand on his wallet.
This could be the against-the-odds perfect ending to our shopping gambit, but I feel like going for more. I decide to double down on the evening’s possibilities.
I raise one eyebrow. “Shall we hit the lingerie department?” I ask.
“Mmmmm...okay.” That’s definitely a frisky look in his eye.
I’m a lucky gal. And sainthood’s in his future, I tell you.
First published in the Montecito Journal April 17, 2008
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