When we moved from New Mexico to Pennsylvania in August of 2010, my entire wardrobe fit in one suitcase and one carry-on— this included two large hats (toppy and floppy) PLUS all my linens. Impressed? I sure was.
That bite-size wardrobe expanded in the following months, mostly with what Imogen calls “it’ll do clothes” from Goodwill. You know, clothes that are almost your style, practically a flattering color, and sorta fit.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point and hurled all my scruples about sweatshops out the window. “Self,” I said, “I’m sick and tired of your walking ragbag getup. You could get written up for this! Buy whatever you need and send me the bill.”
That weekend, I spent three hours at a shopping center, four more at the mall… and emerged completely empty-handed, with not so much as a Cinnabon wrapper to show for my efforts. All the merchandise felt so chintzy, yet cost so much! Nothing came in bearable colors!
Dismayed, I sent out the above photo and following text, written in my rusty Book of Mormon-ese:
“Yea and it came to pass that I, Rebobohah, did gird up my loins and enter the great and spacious mall to seek work clothes, for I knew that the Lord was angered by my shabby appearance. And my soul was saddened by the abundance of sweatshop goods upon the racks, yea, and also upon the floor. Nevertheless, I did seek delightsome work clothes. And forty years did pass. And Jesus wept.”
Ever supportive, my mother replied,
“Trying on shorts at Goodwill with your sister. Baby Jesus cryin’ here, too.”
Retail therapy’s not half so fun as they make it sound.