Compost Studios

On Thursday, the E-Man is getting an award at work, a happy occasion calling for an appearance by the Family Unit and a reception with champagne. Why am I ambivalent? Because I am experiencing a major wardrobe malfunction.

All the appropriate office-style clothes I own don’t fit. Oh sure, everything buttons and zips but then the fabrics start to grab me in all the wrong places, like a perverted fashion molester. Botticelli may love my belly but my black dress pants and my basic black skirt do not. And with my black pants and skirt mourning the Grrrl I used to be, I have nothing to pair with my various professional shirts and jackets.

So with my tailored business clothes out of the running, I pull out a black velour dress I bought last year at the end of the season from Isabella Bird. It has a basic A-line shape, a subtle hippie vibe, a keyhole neckline trimmed all around with black embroidery which is echoed at the hem. I’m thinking a bold pair of earrings and my favorite black boots and I’ll be good.

I try the outfit on and it looks all right--a little funky and artistic. I add a black suede belt and I think it looks even better, a bit more pulled together and flattering. Then I poll other members of the Family Unit for their opinions.

E-Grrrl doesn’t like the belt; she thinks the dress looks better without it. My 10-year-old son thinks the outfit is just OK. But E-Man, the guy about to be honored by his superiors and peers, doesn’t like any of it, especially the boots, which he hates.

“Maybe you need to go shopping,” he suggests.

This is code for “Please don’t wear that outfit to my office.”

I’m torn. The E-Man never comments on my clothes—he doesn’t feel it’s his place to tell me what to wear or how to dress. He’ll only give his opinion if asked, and most of the time he’s fine with whatever comes out of the closet.

Sure, I want to represent him well, and I could go shopping, but I do not want to buy new clothes while I’m channeling my inner Botticelli. I’m superstitious that if I cave in and dress my new figure, I’ll never again be the trim Grrrl I was a year ago (before I discovered Belgian chocolates).

And while I probably could have made quick work of finding a dress in the U.S. , it would be an ordeal here. I don’t know the stores, where to find what I like, the sizing, or what to expect price-wise. It could take forever and cost a fortune, and I’m not motivated to take the “shopping in a country where I don’t speak the language” challenge.

I know E prefers a tailored, traditional look, and I dress like that sometimes. I came of age in the preppie era and I’m still mighty fond of khakis and loafers and even own a sweater set (how white bread is that!). This is an important occasion for him, and if I were a Good Wife, I’d be channeling Martha Stewart and not my inner bohemian.

But you know, I exiled my inner Martha a long time ago and unapologetically suspended all claims to being a domestic goddess or a career woman. I’m not a Perfect Wife or a Perfect Mother and the perfect GPA I earned years ago means little to me now. Today I see myself as a (mostly) Good Grrrl and a Mighty Fine Writer. I may not be a Martha, but I trust my fashion sense. I’m going to wear the artsy dress.

E has been with me since I was 17 and witnessed my evolution. He’s seen me through all my permutations and tribulations. I love him for hanging with me for better and for worse. I’m sure he won’t abandon his Good Grrrl in her Bad Boots, especially when she and the smallest members of the Family Unit are beaming, channeling how proud they are of him.

December 7, 2005