Mistakes, Silk, and a Train Conductor
If you know me, then you know I hate shopping for clothes myself. I love to shop for other people. Nothing is more satisfying that getting my mother to wear a color other than blue, or encouraging my friend to try on the right earrings. What can I say? I’m an artist (and also a girl). It comes with the territory, I guess. I try to figure out what it is that makes each person I know beautiful, and then I try to show that beauty to them. This is also why I love to paint portraits so much.
But I really hate shopping for clothes myself. Ever since I hit puberty earlier and harder than all the other girls in my class, I’ve hated it. Back then, anything I put on either made me look like my mother (not a good look at 13) or a stripper (illegal at 13). Being shy, I generally chose to look like a kindly middle-aged woman. In middle school, my mother took me shopping in the petite women’s section, which is literally where all the little old ladies buy their clothes. I know because I waited in line with them for dressing rooms. This early choice has pretty much shaped all my fashion decisions since. I have seriously considered buying clothes from mail-order catalogues that also sell rooster coasters. I require my clothes to be hassle-free and comfortable, and that’s about it.
But I do have one critical weakness when it comes to clothes, something that is usually completely irrelevant to clothes shopping in the American discount stores I frequent (infrequently). And that weakness is good fabric. My grandmother was a seamstress and my mom used to sew my Halloween costumes out of the fabric’s store’s fine scraps bin, where they sell off the extra material from wedding and prom dresses at discounted prices. From an early age I have loved silk and satin and velvet and fur.
So today, when I wandered into a vintage clothing store near the university, I was instantly seduced. There really is no other word for it. One minute I was a tourist just stopping in to check things out, and the next… the next I was six again, dazzled by sparkles! Sequins! Brocade! Silks! Velvets! In all the colors of the rainbow… the colors I paint with, the ones I never wear. You know, my favorite color is purple but I don’t think I even own anything really purple anymore. Not even vaguely maroon.
Before I knew it, I was touching fabrics, and then I was pulling hangers off the racks- and then, without trying anything on, I was standing in line, buying them. For a dazzling amount of money I will not disclose because frankly, I am too ashamed. Well, I justified to myself, if it doesn’t fit the fabric’s good enough that I can rip out the seams and make some art out of it (or maybe a skirt).
I walked out of the store, bag in hand, and was hit by the light of day, reality and my good sense in a devastating coordinated attack. Oh my god, I thought. What, what in heaven’s name have I just done? I thought of the books I could have bought with the money I’d spent. The books! I could have bought that expensive hardback from Gusmaio and Pavo’s Venice Bienale show! Alternatively I could have eaten for a week! I looked down at my bag. I should have known! Any second-hand store that has its own logoed bags is definitely out of my price range! I am a failure at being a responsible adult, I thought. No one should ever trust me with money ever again. I walked to the U-Bahn station in a haze of embarrassment, sure that every German saw the logo on my bag and knew, intuitively, that I’d spent too much money and wa judging me accordingly.
On the train I huddled over my phone in shame, trying to figure out how to break the news of my idiocy to my mom. I read the fine print on the receipt and discovered the store didn’t accept returns. I didn’t even know if the clothes fit…
Nearly in tears, I looked up and discovered the train was empty. Completely empty. Not just my car, but the car in front and behind mine too. And it was parked in the middle of a tunnel. Then I really did panic.
In my head I played back the German announcements that had been providing the background noise to my furious English texting. “alle… umsteigen…”
Too late, I realized what everyone else had understood- the train was undergoing maintenance and was being taken out of circulation for some unspecified amount of time. What if the lights go out? I thought. What if I’m stuck here for days, in complete darkness? Is this going to be some sort of survivor scenario? Am I going to have to hunt rats for food? I bet they’re pretty tough down here. Oh my god, oh my god…… All because I was an idiot and spent too much on clothes… This has to be karma…
Then the train conductor popped his head in. “Hey, you’re okay,” he laughed. (Apparently I looked pretty desperate.) “We’re parked here for another twenty minutes, but then we’ll get back to the station.” It was clear that I was far from the first person to make this mistake.
Wow, I thought, maybe I’m not an idiot. Maybe I just make mistakes sometimes. Other people make mistakes too. Maybe we’re just all trying our best. Maybe it’s going to be okay.
I thought about a lot of stuff, alone in that train car for twenty minutes. Mostly stupid stuff, like I need to take a snapchat of this! (I did) and this would make an amazing performance space for an underground theater group and also I’m so glad I didn’t take off all my clothes and run around screaming at the top of my lungs like I wanted to before the conductor came, because that would have been really embarrassing. But also I thought that maybe I need to be kinder to myself. Maybe I need to trust myself a little more. Maybe I need to learn to trust other people to see the sort of beauty in me that I can see in them.
When I finally got home I tried on the clothes. I guess my inner six-year-old is pretty good at judging size because they all fit nearly perfectly. And now I own a fur scarf, a silk brocade top and an 80s cocktail dress, all in royal purple. My favorite color.
