All these years, I’ve been shopping for the wrong persona
By Beth Teitell
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
I wore a new skirt to work yesterday, and you wouldn’t believe how many compliments it got. It’s white and ruffly and very Reese Witherspoon with a touch of Shakira, and I barely had time to write, so busy was I accepting praise. ‘‘I love it!” a co-worker called out as we passed on the way to the cafe. In 10 years of working together, we’d never spoken before. ‘‘Too fabulous,” an editor said, forgetting that I’d yet to file my column.
But I’m not boasting. In fact, each ‘‘you look amazing” was like a knife to my heart. Why? Because the skirt is Not Me. As in: I was shopping with a whimsical friend at the whimsical Mint Julep boutique, when she seized it from the rack, insisted I try it on and then fought off my protestations: ‘‘But it’s not me,” I said as she marched me to the cash register.
‘‘You’re right,” she said, ‘‘but it should be.”
So now, after decades of rejecting perfectly nice garments because they failed the ‘‘is it me?” test - outfits that might have set me on a path to stardom - I realize I’ve been selling myself short. If my parents had set (sartorial) expectations as low for me as I set for myself, I’d probably be in therapy griping about them.
‘‘I didn’t want to say anything,” a fashionista told me, ‘‘but it’s true, you’ve been limiting yourself.”
She revealed her secret: When she shops, she imagines herself in different settings - on a yacht, perhaps, or a beach house (oceanfront, not ocean view) or as a character in a movie. I do that, too, only I picture myself not as the star, but an extra in the back, who’d been given these instructions: Just wear what you wear and don’t be noticeable.
‘‘I feel like people are responding to me differently,” I told the fashionista. ‘‘Like you’re a fun person?” she asked.
‘‘Yes,” I said. I did feel bubbly, but with bitterness. Compliments like that are in the ‘‘what the hell vibe did I give off before?” camp. A one-way ticket to obsession.
Meanwhile, as yesterday’s workday drew to a close, all I could think about was shopping, and my new strategy. Ask myself ‘‘Is it me?” and if the answer is ‘‘yes,” put it back and keep shopping.
All this made me sympathize with people in the Witness Protection Program. They get new identities, sure, but then they have to dress for them. ‘‘Is this something a mob snitch would wear? Yes? Then back it goes.”
For now, I’ve got some closet culling to do. Or maybe I’ll wait till I’m not feeling like myself.
