Photo by Noah Buscher on Unsplash
There are certain fashion trends I’ll never understand.
Overalls on grown women. Who aren’t farmers.
Women and little girls in matching Lily Pulitzer ensembles.
And turtleneck layering.
The first turtleneck is always a crisp white cotton number. And the second, the “show” turtleneck, is cashmere. In pale pink. Periwinkle blue. Apple green.
You get the picture.
Now, this is a lovely look if you don’t break into a sweat with every breath as some of us older folk have begun to do, or if you don’t mind being choked to death all day.
Unfortunately, I do, and I do.
So, while the look is rich and sophisticated, this is one time I’m glad to be poor and trashy.
In my trendy jeans, high-heeled black boots, and endless, straight-from-working-in-New-York-City selection of sweaters, tees, and tops also in basic black, I stick out like a sore thumb.
Sadly, I hate to stick out.
I like to fit in, be part of the crowd. It probably goes back to when I was in high school and wanted to be one of the popular girls. Ha. Never happened.
And so, because apparently I still aspire to go steady with the captain of the football team, I attempted to wear two turtlenecks.
As I only possess two white items of clothing, both of which are sweat socks, this decision led to the Great White Turtleneck Search.
And that led to a trip to the Fun Shop.
The Fun Shop is a small boutique bursting with all manner of picture frames, martini glasses, coasters, funny cocktail napkins, and of course women’s turtlenecks.
Of course.
In less than five minutes I was the proud owner of a white PB&J brand turtleneck, and a jumbo-sized bottle of Excedrin, which I got at the Safeway across the street.
I wasn’t just going to have a headache. I was going to have an aneurysm.
A short time later I slipped into my new PB&Jer and topped it with a luscious cashmere number in chocolate.
Oh how sophisticated I looked!
For ten seconds.
Almost immediately I was in a full-on, hair frizzing, makeup melting, body-soaking shvitz. The likes of which you’d expect to experience if you live someplace really warm.
Like the sun.
To make matters worse, if indeed there is anything worse than being able to quench your thirst by sucking on your sweater, I began to choke from the garments’ vice-like grip around my throat.
No matter how I tugged at the necks of those shirts, they snapped right back – like the Playtex 18-hour girdle my grandma used to wear.
The one that forced her spleen to the top of her spine.
I was about to pass out when it came to me like a mild stroke that it didn’t matter if I ever achieved even a modicum of sophistication.
What matters is that I’m me.
Blonde, blue-jeaned, and black-topped. Able to give dead-on directions to the Stone Pony while smashed on mojitos at the height of a hurricane.
What was I thinking wearing two turtlenecks so tight my skull was about to explode?
And besides, if I want my head to pop off, I simply need to wear the other fashion staple I’ll never understand: Capris.
One glimpse at my butt in those babies and I’m certain to need a neurologist. Or at least two Excedrin.
Good thing I bought the big bottle.
Author’s Note: This piece was written long before my move to Florida! No turtlenecks here, though there should be – to hide my neck!