TMI: Dress Dreaming During Physical Distancing
Like so many of us bound to the safety of our own homes – mostly for others, not ourselves, remember – we now have had sufficient time to let this new normal set in a bit. Your dog/ baby/ plant looks straight into your soul, past your eyes telekinetically asking, “How is that really going for you?” Ooof.
Listen, this pandemic is serious. Thinking about the long term implications - loss of loved ones, the economy, toll on health care system, my neighbours - is heavy. I’m not making light of the situation. That said, I need mini breaks while trying to get through it. I find a little comfort in finding safe escapes like getting lost in other less harm filled thoughts.
As a nearly always existential Pisces, I think a lot. Like a lot, a lot. I sometimes beat myself up over the seemingly universal millennial need for meditation and being present and my apparent lack of skill in both these arenas. The word “mindfulness” is now a trigger for me like its instant eyes twitch overused and thus numb acquaintances “perfect” and “effortless.” Alas, like a Shakespearean plot, my mind continues to runneth over.
When I’m more kind to myself, I know that I can use my active, peripatetic imagination for both good and bad. It can be both and I can use it, like any other tool, as wisely as I desire. When I’m in a more anxious state, my mind ping ponging around feeds my inner saboteur. An example of this bad use is fussing over a friend’s particular comment and four days later coming up with the ideal za za zinger retort. Or wondering why my most reader-hated blog post involves not supporting leggings as pants opposed to literally anything else. When I use my natural instincts for good, great things can happen. For example, slowly and without forced direction, processing a speech or a blog post for weeks before the deadline and actively waiting to write it all down until I’m actually “good and ready.” It’s a form of discipline rather than succumbing to my “rush it” natural impulse. Another example is using my imagination to think about each touchpoint a client would have during a styling session from the initial call all the way through to a holiday card sent months later.
Over the years I’m finally able – more times than not - hone it. While I’m no Morpheus, I’ve learned that letting things positively simmer can be and is different than negatively fester. Though I am getting better at reframing difficult truths, for example: my girlfriends is back with that (shitty) colourful guy because she (is a sadist) chose to be, and actively approach things more rationally than I first emotionally do. I try not to force my own hand too much when I know I have the time to process slower. And boy do I have the time right now.
I actively let my mind - and fingers, when on a keyboard – wander. I recently read an article that has stuck with me for days (albeit, it’s likely an expression of ego as it validates my own stance). Nevertheless, a mature parent reminded his adult daughter of a saying they have repeated over the years in their own family, “There is no such thing as boredom, only lazy minds.” Dang it Daddy; that’s real talk.
I take a little pride knowing I can keep myself occupied with activities and also with my own thoughts. I guess all that colouring and “silent singing” in the van during family trips has paid off. These days it’s day dreams about the places I might, someday maybe not too far into the future go and more importantly, what I will wear. Outfit planning – be it for your work week or a week away – is just like dress dreaming. I think about what I’ll need for that time and build looks around it.
I’ve already grieved over the parties, potlucks, birthdays, and holidays that have been cancelled (and so have my looks). I have – and will I show no signs of stopping – played dress up with and for myself. Things are now evolving to dreaming about the clothes I’ll dress in later events this year. More specifically, I dress dream about what I’ll do and wear when this pandemic eventually resolves. So far it involves a hot, sunny June day in Las Vegas…
After breakfast at our favourite people watching spot on the Strip, we’ll go window shopping at Bellagio and Caesars. I’ll go into the shops, give head nods and soft hellos to the sales team, and silently gush over the fabrics gently cascading through my hands. You’ll find me a little later, sweating poolside in a swim suit, stupid huge hat, and heels. I’ll look over from my book and see my partner playing cards with other hotel guests at the swim up pool and join him for a few hands. Next, after getting ready in the hotel room and me wearing something involving hand beaded sequins, we’ll bounce out of the elevator, past the lobby floor, and head onto the Strip. I’ll likely slip just a tiny bit on the deftly buffed and polished floors and scold my partner via eye darts for even thinking I should wear more sensible shoes for our night out.
Regrouped, we’ll stop and have a way too expensive bourbon with perfect – and this time I do mean the word perfect - strangers at a busy, ritzy bar. After that drink we’ll wait in line for a show where I hopefully bump into to someone by accident and apologize but secretly revel in the anonymous, harmless contact. I’ll offer to buy them a drink and we’ll all laugh it off and all the way through the scandalous show. Afterwards, as we file out of the venue, I’ll start to get excited for the dinner reservations that we’re about to check into. My toes will start to tippy tap as I remind myself that the restaurant is not my kitchen, we haven’t prepared anything ourselves, and we’ll be dotted on by hosts, a sommelier, servers, cooks, busers, patrons with knowing glances, cleaners, and maybe even management. Dinner will be divine. As I wipe a single, discreet joyful tear away from my heavily made up face, we’ll leave a generous tip and I’ll shake more hands on the walk out than what it may deem appropriate.
Before tucking in for the night, we will take an Uber down to Freemont Street, grab a huge American canned light beer to share, and pop from casino to casino trying our luck at five-dollar blackjack. And this time, I’ll play the Lucky Lucky. After a few hours, I’ll start to get sleepy in the Uber back and as we make our way to the hotel. Back at the room I’ll wash the streets off of my formerly stilettoed feet with the hotel’s carefully wrapped bar soap but I’ll be bad and not wash my face. See, I’ll want to wake up in the morning, thinking of the thousands of people we safely interacted with, and have visible proof that it wasn’t a dream. Plus, I bet my makeup looked too damn good.
It can’t be a just dream. But I know that this and many more can wait.
Enough about my dress dreams, what will you be wearing when you do your fabulous post pandemic outing?
