Some fashion sense

I give myself no credit for having any fashion sense, and I should qualify said confession with an I could not possibly care any less.
I’ve had such a steady diet of jeans and sweatshirts that when I do emerge in a dress or other garment from that category, I feel very much a fraud.
When I wear high heels, it creates great cause for laughter for those around me; my feet shouting out in protest.
We only pass this way once and I can’t quite get my head around the rationale behind wearing heels on this one-way trip.
I’ve not once stood in a glamorous outfit and felt my princess genes awaken—or even stir. I’ve never glanced in a mirror and felt the surprise of elegance wash over me.
Having said that, I’m mostly comfortable in my own skin. There may have been a time or two when I felt the urge to be a real girl—to wear jewellery like it was a good fit, to dazzle my lips with bright lipstick, to know just the right colour of blush and the amount required to look as though I hadn’t brushed any on at all.
I’ve quit the madness of spending a small fortune on make-up that is meant to transform me. I don’t want transformation. I like this version of me. She’s comfy. She’s soft on the edges and on the inside where it really counts.
I’m grateful for the legs that hold me upright and the arms that still can push the piano around when I have the urge to re-arrange the furniture.
As for what I wear–it makes little difference to me. If it doesn’t squeeze or pinch or chaff my skin, I’m good to go.
Raising four daughters has provided endless guidance in the wardrobe department. They’ve shared their opinions without limit and without hesitation. I mostly ignored them and when they winced at some outfit I donned, I pretended not to notice.
However (every story has a however), I did have a favourite T-shirt. I considered it one notch above the ordinary. I thought of it as a dressy T-shirt, bordering on fancy.
This particular garment was halfway between lime and mint green, so practically perfect in colour. It had small yellow horizontal stripes (I know, we’re warned never to wear horizontal stripes, especially if we are shorter than the standard allowed height, but I loved said T-shirt).
And when we went on holiday to Cuba, I packed my lime/mint green T-shirt, along with my other favourites of jeans and shorts and hoodies.
I wasn’t put off when my two youngest daughters tried to remove the T-shirt from my luggage. And then whined a loud “But Mom” when I discovered their covert intentions.
The first night in Cuba, after a long walk on the beach, I rinsed my precious T-shirt in the sink and hung it on the small patio in front of our ocean-facing room along with my old battle-worn running shoes and a pair of socks and a pair of yoga pants, whose left knee was slightly worn from wear.
I woke up in the morning and opened the door to the patio. I found the ancient running shoes gone, the yoga pants snatched from their drying place, and the stained white gym socks suspiciously absent.
But still hanging on the railing was my green T-shirt with the yellow horizontal stripes.
This very event confirmed my fairly certain supposition. My fashion sense was sadly lacking and the proof was in the pudding. Not even the poor and homeless want my good clothes—just the old ratty ones.
Point taken and yes, dear daughters, you were right.