The Last Thing I Want

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but then, that's what personal blogs are for, right? I am utterly obsessive-compulsive when it comes to wardrobe planning. Which is really not something you'd guess if you were to see me at the grocery store on any given day. Lately, I have been looking like the "before" picture in one of those "I'm-An-Old-Mommy-Who-Needs-A-Makeover" shows. Anyway. Somewhere along the line of my adulthood I got into the habit of doing my main, seasonal shopping for clothes and accessories three times a year, and I absorbed the message of 'less-is-more, buy classic pieces that will last forever,' etc. I put the message into practice by buying expensive clothes in way too many classic shapes and colors. This worked just fine when I was living beyond my means. Now that I am not doing that (mostly) and also have four other people to answer to, it's a bit more complicated. It also becomes an exercise in guesswork and hope, now that I shop almost exclusively online. You never know what color something will be, or if the size chart is really right.

The real key, though, to my compulsion is perfectionist tendencies. Now that I have all of these options on the internet, and a laptop right in front of me, I want to comparison shop until I drop (literally). I want to get the perfect piece, for the right price (not necessarily the lowest price, but I don't want to be gouged). I'm not talking about Carolina Herrera here, or Lanvin (though I'd probably choose those if I lived in a world where there was no money), or even Elie Tahari or Anne Klein. I'm talking about choosing Talbot's, Pendleton or Brooks Brothers (by the way, when did they get so expensive?! Who are they trying to kid?) for office visits and JJill or Athleta, Eddie Bauer, REI or L.L. Bean for other days. (Boden is too pricey to be so quirky.)

I start by cataloguing my existing clothes for the upcoming season, figuring out what needs fixing, what doesn't fit (a somewhat disheartening step this fall, post-baby, but not as much so as you'd think; apparently I used to wear all my clothes too baggy because most of them still fit), and finally, which pieces are missing. Examples of missing pieces: ivory sweater, red jacket for work, dress for date night, casual skirt for church, shoes to wear with skirt and dress. These are just examples. In reality, my list of missing pieces usually runs into the dozens -- that gets weeded out later. Once I've got the list, I create an elaborate chart, of all of the various possible items I could buy to fill the bill of Missing Pieces, including a description of the item, the store, and the price. An actual example (sorry, the formatting is lost):

Ivory sweater. Pendleton hand-wash tweed-knit mock t-neck in camel/grey (w/ matching wrap) $118 ($98 for the wrap); Talbot’s cowl neck merino sweater in sand dollar (or red) $78; Talbot’s elbow-length, machine wash rayon sweater in sand dollar $58; Orvis cotton/cashmere turtleneck $69; Eddie Bauer cream ribbed cotton t-neck (lots of nice colors & washable) $39.50.

I work on this for DAYS. And then new catalogs come. In the end, I usually buy some of it. And at least working on the chart keeps me from being (too) impulsive. But I realize it is totally ridiculous.

Granted, I didn't get to undertake this seasonal ritual for spring or summer this year, because I was too sleep-deprived and scrambled. I didn't get to do it for fall & winter last year, either, because I was just trying to get by with the minimum maternity clothes needed. And I didn't get to do it for spring or summer last year because, well, I was unconscious a lot of the time. I'm not saying this justifies the now week-long, eye-crossing scrabbling on this chart, but at least it explains it a little. Add to my natural weirdness the following problems:

• my apparent unwillingness to accept that I only need work clothes about 6 times a month (I tend to think of it more like, 'I go to the office so rarely; the last thing I want is for everyone to constantly see me in the same outfit');
• the changes in my body since pregnancy, making it stranger to clothe and in need of different shapes and sizes;
• the fact that I can no longer walk in heels, which makes me bereft even though I was constantly blistered and bitching before and which definitely changes the sorts of things I can wear-- truly wide-legged or flared pants absolutely require high heels, for example, to avoid looking like a graceless puddle;
• the need, more than ever before, for machine-washable clothing to deal with constant baby drool and mess; and
• pure sticker shock -- even if the economy wasn't crummy and prices weren't so high, suddenly buying a bunch of clothes all at once after so long not doing it is always tough (impossible).

So, what will I do? I'll go back through and ruthlessly winnow my chart until only those nuggets remain that I can actually buy without having an aneurysm. And then I'll go see which catalogs came today.