Who am I? Oscar ready.

Who am I? Oscar ready.
Cognitive dissonance, wardrobe style.

My computer battery died after 5 years of duty, and Steve and I headed to Boca on Sunday for a "genius appointment." My track pad was dead, and my computer was slow as hell, and to her credit, Dana the Genius plugged in an ethernet cable, confirmed the death of the battery, installed another, and found a software glitch in the "accessibility" (not trackpad?) setting.  Steve had diagnosed the memory as the weak spot for speed, and true enough- she advised me to add on.  But as they had no memory in stock, my Genius Steve ordered and installed 4GB into my little laptop, and now I am humming along.

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  In preparation for the appointment, I decided to clean up my desktop, where I strand bits of random and orphaned wisdom.  There were fifty little tiles of nothingness to re-route, file or ditch. I did not want the Genius to judge me by my perverse system of filing.

It was there that I found the picture that dazzled you at the opening of this brilliant communique.

I took that picture after a Christmas/New Year season that saw none of those shimmery, festive items called into service. It represents two distinct problems that live in my closet.

1. I never throw out a garment that has happy memories associated with it.

2. I believe (quite incorrectly) that I lead a glamorous life, hence I need sequins.

As to #1: I cannot help myself.  I have items of my mother's that SHE had a good time in.  I have to say, some items have come back in style.   Neon. Maxi skirts. Wide leg pants/narrow pants. Patch madras. I have scores of cool stuff waiting for its encore.

Sure, I house many creations that should never be worn again, by an older, heavier grandmotherly me. So? Seeing them makes me smile.  Remember happy days. My overflow lives in the kids' closets, causing no harm for the moment.  Some tidbits may provide great comic relief in case my family is tasked with disposing of the history of Janet via clothes someday. I still warehouse a denim coat that the family embellished with patches as a gift for Mom's 70th birthday.  In the pocket is a cigarette package: Merits, low tar, filtered.  Mom had heart disease, and the coat was her hiding place.  Once in awhile I touch the coat that touched her, housed her secret vice. I will never toss it. Hell, I didn't throw out the Merits.

But the sequins?  I plead mental incapacity.  Even during the holidays, our celebrations are homebound and grandchild filled.  I take the fashion page far too seriously when they push the notion that sparkle is appropriate everyday.  I recall that the goal is to add ONE item of sparkle to work against more tailored garments. See? I know the fashion rules. I'm ready.

Whoa. My everyday is the perfect place for yoga clothes (big day) or pajama pants and a T Shirt (every other day).

Diagnosis: chronic fashion disassociation. I shop for a make believe life.  Steve has never been the party guy.  We have never done the benefit circuit, or the fancy dinner stuff.  So why do I shop like I am headed for Splash?

Honestly- everything that bedazzled you as you clicked was cheap.  Much is old. Still, for a woman my age, there is a redundancy of glamour that belies my reality.  I do not invest in this alternative fashion reality, I swear.  I dabble.

This year, for some perverse reason I bought a $39 dollar black sequin pencil skirt at TJMaxx. (seen on top of the pile. TJ Maxx is my temple, my downfall, my neighbor. ) I did not wear it publicly.   But I pulled it on with a turtle neck sweater, and thought it looked cute.  In my bedroom mirror.  Maybe it will see the outside world someday, though it occurs to me that sitting will be prickly, therefore I will have to wear tights. I surmise that the rump side would rapidly be be de-dazzled at that price point. Those are mitigating factors.

Cheap thrills. It makes me happy to know that I am ready to shine should the occasion ever present itself.

If it does not, my closet is a happier place with its mysterious Vogue-ish alter ego.

BUT...if you ever see me sporting a denim coat with patches, smoking, call Steve.

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