$tyle

The husband was “on call” today, which means that he goes to the hospital and is at the beck and call of the residents, which means that he’ll most likely come home after the kids’ bedtime, which means I can’t count on my second mommy wind to inflate my sails around six o’clock at night. So, we made plans: glorious plans, brave plans, shopping plans.

On our way back from our run when Atrain said, “What we are doing today, mom?” I replied with excitement, “We’re going to the mall!” To which he asked a very poignant, very telling question, “What’s the mall?” And now you know how much I don’t shop at the mall. My kid loves the D.I. He loves the grocery store. He loves the “big red ball store” (target), but he has no idea what the mall is. So I told him, “We’re going to a great and spacious building with lots of people inside.”—Ok, maybe I didn’t say exactly that, but the image came to mind when I tried to tell him about “the very large, very noisy building with lots of stores.”

So, we went. And to be honest, I would be satisfied if we never revisited that awful place. I hate feeling like: a) I have to spend money to buy things that look good on me, and b) I’m not really sure what actually does look good on me. It’s a lot easier to tell someone they look good in something. My sisters Bambie and Allerina came with me. Bambie hates the mall too, probably for the same reasons that I do. Allerina just hates being dragged around the mall by her two older sisters, who both feel like their days of enjoying the rush of paying $85 for a pair of shoes are long gone. Good riddance.

There was once a day when I loved saving up my precious pennies during long summers working the harvest at my dad’s mill. Of course, I put some on reserve for college and a mission and tithing, but I couldn’t wait to go “up north” and blow the rest on school clothes. I loved trying them on, bringing them home and doing a runway show for my parents, who humored me with all sorts of applause, hoots and hollering. I was so proud of myself.

Not any more. Buying clothing for myself is now laborious and rather painful—even on the rare occasion that I love what I see in the mirror, I still feel…guilty? Annoyed? Resentful of the fact that I’ve been trained to think that I need something new, because I really don’t. Fashion is fun, but I can’t eat it, it cuts into the diaper money, and in a few months it becomes unfashionable to wear whatever I bought with the money I should have used to pay rent. Besides, the husband thinks I look great in my mom’s recycled clothing. I do admit that I still find a certain, small amount of glee when I see myself in something new; it’s refreshing, like shedding layers of old skin must feel refreshing to a snake. But I’m still a snake.

Maybe I just need a better budget, or even just a budget that isn’t based on student loans. I guess I’m just too thrifty, or too careless to wear stylish things. I love admiring the style sense of others. And someday maybe I will have a style sense of my own, but today is not that day. Maybe it will never come. Because even when we do have a little more pocket change I know I will have a hard time ignoring other “needs” that are much more pressing: like sweet furniture, custom cabinets and decorative pillows. Yes, it will always be much easier to dress my home than to dress myself.