Love at the Laundromat

Love...what is real love?

As my mom used to say: I’ve always been a fashion plate. Who knows exactly what that means…I guess a Fashion plate is like a License Plate, only in my case pinker, prettier more practical, with the same amount of attention to the backside. When I was young, she used to let me pick out my own outfits. Flushed with exciting and a sense of independence, I’d feverishly throw together a hodgepodge of dance recital costumes pieces, frilly skirts, grandmas fine jewelry and my white Easter shoes for a cold December day’s walk in the park. Oh and some form of a bra…How I wanted a bra! I used to take friendship bracelets and tie up my undershirts in between my non existent boobs so that it would look like I was wearing a bra, and actually had boobs! Then I’d proceed to show every boy on the playground. My boobs were just a twinkle in my eye back then…Who knew someday they may play a very important part in my hopes and dreams and career path. But then again, don’t boobs really play an important part in most peoples hopes, dreams and career path…c’mon lets be serious!
It didn’t occur to me in those days, while I was tap dancing down the street and dressing Barbie that someday I’d be sitting in a Laundromat, using words like hodgepodge and doing 5 loads at a time for the affordable price of $20.00, and I haven’t even got to the drying bit yet!

This got me thinking: Is the way you dress an indication of who you are? What kind of message do we send everyday by what we look like?- and is it relative to our location? The other day I had to go to a training class for my job. Yes, that’s right I have job!...actually four, but who could expect anything less from me. Anyways, I was told it was a training session so I did my best to look presentable. Not decked out like a seven layer cake but busy-casj with long curly hair, my most favorite Dior spray foundation, full: shiny coral lips, my new white trench, brown Jessica Simpson boots, and a little of grandma’s fine jewelry.

Walking in, I immediately noticed a lack of color. The palette was mostly limited to black or grey. Dull distressed jeans, and clumps of cotton and T-shirts where blurring my eyes like I was on my third Skinny Bitch Martini. I was Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville. I was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I was an Andy Warhol in a gallery of Monet. Walking through a sea of sweatpants and hoodies, I finally found my seat next to a middle aged man with who was smirking at me, like I was Lady Gaga. “Are you working for the Cubs?” he said almost teasing. “Yes, I replied, I’m bartending in the new PNC club”. I held back my urge to tell him I was bartending to pay the bills, and was looking for a job in the arts, taking on two internships and Murder Mystery theatre on the weekends. I had already blown him away with the Jess Simpson’s, and the rest of the info probably wouldn’t have helped my cause.

“Oh,” he replied. “I thought maybe this is fashion training.” And though I knew he was joking, for the first time, I was a little embarrassed to be dressed to the nines, when everyone else was still at about four thirty. In Vegas, this outfit would have been ideal lunchtime Mimosas with the girls or walking the storefront streets of Town’s Square. I would have looked normal there, to be honest I would have looked like apple pie. I doubt anyone would have given me a second glance. After all, I am not a size zero with D cups, I only use Bump-Its on occasion and have been neglecting the tanning bed for months. But today this man thought he was sitting next to Pam Anderson. Which made giggle a little. I went on to learn that the man’s name was Ira, and he had been working every summer for the Chicago Cubs for the last thirty years. When I asked him why he loved his job so much, he simply replied, “It’s become a part of me.” And in that moment I knew Ira and I had something in common. I knew then, what I’ve always known: That fashion is a part of me, and always has been.

Deep down, I’m really just a showoff, flashypants. Clothes are the thread that quilts my life together. For example, I love dance, but while most dancers get up in the morning to take class, Id rather stay in bed. My favorite part of the whole shebang is the costumes, and the makeup and opening night, when everyone looks and says: “My, isn’t she something.” Its no wonder I found my home on the stage for four years dripping in diamonds wearing various forms of plumage and enough makeup to keep MAC in business during a recession. But, I felt pretty, and fabulous and alive. Another example: I love going out, but really only so everyone can see my new fabulous stilettos, a new hairstyle experiment, or the look on Roland’s face when I look really fantastic. And how many times have I told myself, this dress will change your life, this dress will get the job, this dress will make you feel smarter, sexier, stronger and more successful. While, that rarely ever works: what’s the harm in feeling like it will? Shopping is a better vice than anything I can think of: its low calorie, it doesn’t hurt your lungs or you liver and is completely and totally legal. I understand girls who are on a budget but that’s why God created bargains. Even the most frugal fashionista can find a deal here and there!

And so while I’m sitting here folding my mountains of laundry. I’m looking not only at mere textiles, but a kaleidoscope of memories, past goals, ambitions and good times. And I decide, I’ll never stop doing something I love, or being who I am. Because as much as I may like to avoid it at times, it’s a part of me, a part of who I am and who I hope to become. Finally, I take the last load out of the dryer, and pink sequined headband falls on the floor, it must have got mixed in my laundry bag by mistake, but it is bright and shiny and looks somewhat like a piece of a dance costume.