Ode to Jammy Pants

The reason for the inclusion of the above photo is not because of all the false statements it makes. I mean, just because I'm standing in the kitchen does not mean that I cook. Just because there are 3 open bottles of wine in front of me does not mean that I can't make a decision. And just because I'm waving a carrot over my glass of wine does not mean that I will be eating it with my drink (there will most assuredly be a pizza in my life later on).

No, the reason for posting that photo with this little clothing-related tidbit is because it's one of many I've found where I'm wearing my favorite thing in the world: my jammy pants.

As the halfway mark to "this stupid idea" (as I've come to call it) approaches, I've come to really feel strongly for the clothes I have. Some of them I kind of hate right now; if I have to look at that same stinkin' blue sundress again for the 4th of July, I might throw something. But when it comes to my jammy pants, a strange sort of love has blossomed.

Don't scoff at my intense emotions; my love for jammy pants is a sweet, enduring love. Because they are perfect. The exact right length, the exact amount of stretchy; they are a pair of sweat pants that never make me feel bad for being too tired, too sick, or too lazy to put on a pair of "real" pants. I ask you, what kind of person could give someone that kind of acceptance?

There really aren't any other lounging pants in my life. Sure, there are other sweats, other pajama bottoms, but I've begun to realize that these are the ones I always want. When they're in the dirty clothes basket, I'm sad. When they're available on the closet shelf (or on the floor next to other "not really dirty yet" clothes) I'm happy. When I'm wearing them, I'm really, really happy.

And they've seen me through many situations. I'm realizing how true that is as I look through all my photos for shots of them, some of them silly carrot kitchen photos, other boring lounging photos, and then some a little cooler. Like this one from the Atacama desert in northern Chile:

Yes, those are the jammy pants with me on the bunk bed. And here they are on the Tierra del Fuego:

It's kind of funny to think that they were a chance purchase while at a regatta in San Diego my freshman year of college (ooh, what was that, 7 years ago? wow). I think they were $20.

Knowing now how comfy they are, how great they are for both sleeping and for singing Brittany Spears while drinking champagne, I surely would have paid twice that.

Heck, for 7 years of travel and relaxation, early morning shuffles to the gym and late night glasses of wine on the porch, I would have paid $100 for these pants. They're still green, sort of, they still say CREW really big down the side, awesome, and the drawstring still works something I've employed religiously ever since my roommate pantsed me while my hands were full that one time senior year.

As I gaze longingly at the new clothes still coming out this summer, I think about how much I would be willing to pay for these silly, awesome pants. I can see how it's changing how I'm going to shop again once January rolls around. The price tags on new stuff don't seem astronomical to me like they did before, I guess because I imagine buying only the things that I'm going to love like I love the jammy pants.

Why waste money on stuff that isn't totally perfect? Why did I ever buy that pair of jeans with the ridiculous pockets that do not make by butt look awesome? ...because they were on sale??

No, never again. I'm only ever going to allow stuff into my closet if it is certain to be loved every time I wear it. No more money wasted! If it's going to be purchased, it must pass the jammy pants test!

Dieting in The Land of Milk & Honey

Pity, party of one? Pity, party of one...

Nobody likes someone who's feeling sorry for herself.

Now I know that many people experience true hardships, real experiences of self-denial that are for their own good. And we all feel for them--for the guy trying to quit smoking, the couple pinching pennies toward that first new house, the diabetic forgoing the dessert cart. We might even listen to a little of their struggle with a sympathetic ear.

To an extent.

But let's face it--no one wants to hear that guy whine about wanting cigarettes. No one wants those sugar-starved eyes staring down your Oreo. None of us like hearing someone else complain that they can't* afford something. We tip our hats to the stoic decisions, but we recoil from the demand for pity.

Simply put: the Pity Party is a party of one.

And it was Shannon Kelly's party last weekend in Vegas. For awhile, anyway.

Seriously, I'm embarrassed. But this is a sort of tell-all blog about giving up something FAR less serious than cigarettes or killer sugar, so I 'fess up by saying that I was throwing myself a major pity party while shopping with the ladies during our Girls' Weekend in Fabulous Las Vegas.

I'm not proud of it. But here it is. I was already a bit bummed out with the clothes I'd brought-- a couple of dresses I was sure I'd worn a million times. I was stuck with them, and I was feeling sorry for myself.

Seriously, if Hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned, then it definitely hath no bitchy mood like a woman not feeling pretty. Without something new to wear, I was feeling very dull and wanted only to park by the pool and read Harry Potter. And even then I was hating the swimsuit I brought.

But I found myself at the mall with Sarah and Kelly, immersed in a sea of glittering, gorgeous shoes. All of my own accord, of course. After all, hadn't I suggested that mall in the first place? Hadn't I led us to that huge shoe selection?

Hadn't I, in a buzzed and giggling fit on the airplane, made a list of all of the things the 3 of us had expected to find in Vegas, many of which were clothing items?

And I really did want the girls to find the fabulous shoes and clothes enumerated in our Vegas Wish List. I wanted them to know the thrill that is Shopping in Vegas. So of course we were at the mall. And I was bummed out.

I waaaaaanted. We were surrounded by gorgeous summer stuff, and it was calling to me. A funky white dress at French Connection. Light, breezy colors at Ann Taylor. And sandals, oh the sandals. My toes looked disappointed as we dove into the sweet sea of strappy strappiness and began to find stuff for the girls to try on.

What was I doing? Why had I entered into this stupid agreement with myself and then taken a plunge into the best shopping city I've ever known? In the place where every pleasure can be yours, I was forgoing one of my greatest. And I was pissed off about it. I pouted and quit trying things on altogether.

Eventually our dinner reservations demanded that we abandon the shopping. My gloomy self-pity was chased away by a giggling hour of primping in the Venetian Suite. Kelly was dancing on one of the beds while Sarah handed out champagne, and all of us were singing to Britney Spears and Lady Gaga.

And even though it was Sarah who was wearing the super-hot dress just purchased that day, the compliments were flowing as free as the bubbly. They didn't care that I was wearing a dress I bought over 5 years ago--they gasped when I strutted across the room in it. Vainly we snapped photo after photo of ourselves, posing and laughing and honestly commenting on how stunning everyone looked.

So perhaps it was the champagne, perhaps it was the air guitar solo I did with the hairdryer while perched on the railing in the room, but suddenly I felt awesome. Gorgeous. Big-Haired and Confident.

We marched our beauty to dinner, where we had the backstage view of the Bellagio fountains and an amazing array of num-nums to choose from. The breeze was lovely, the company fun, and the conversation pretty hilarious.

And when we went shopping again the next day, things were different. Embarrassed at my Debbie Downer-ness of the prior day, I attacked the stores with everything I had. No dressing room was safe, no pricey pair of pants was going to elude me!

We made the required trip to Anthropologie, and of course we went to Banana Republic. There I put together a lovely outfit for a safari and pretended to be gracefully scouting giraffes while in the dressing room.

When would I need silk high-waisted shorts that tie and have pleats & cuffs? In Africa, obviously, while holding binoculars in Muffy and Spencer's Land Rover. Along with this perfect little (organic) cotton white tank. Because Muffy cares about the environment.

At Ann Taylor I insisted Sarah try on their white pants, despite the hefty price tag, and I tried some, too. Just to see how they looked. There's something luxurious about trying on the really nice stuff and not just going for the sale rack. Like flying first class or drinking Perrier. I went a little over the top, trying them on with heels and a silly formless shirt, which I decided would look better blowing in the wind at the beach. Kelly helped me create that effect:

And finally, the French Connection once again, this time to get Kelly's dream dress. FCUK had come through for us the day before with Sarah's stunning little number, and now it had been determined that the green one was going to be The One for Kelly.

Totally enjoying prancing around in front of mirrors, I grabbed a blue one and somehow managed to paint it on.

Dude, it looked pretty awesome. Kelly was looking like a rockstar down the way in green, and I was kinda glued to the mirror in the blue. The girls were super cool, too, telling me it looked great, even telling me I really ought to just go ahead and get it.

But the cool thing was, it was satisfying enough to just feel good in it. Honestly, it was a big ego boost to see it on and like how I looked.

I felt just as awesome later that night in my own dress. Yeah, it would have been great to flaunt all over the casinos in that blue one, but it was great, well, flaunting all over the casinos in the one I had. And I got to enjoy the company of 2 other ladies who were really enjoying themselves and what they were wearing.

In fact, my stupid pity party aside, we enjoyed everything we did that weekend. Laying by the pool, eating fancy meals, gambling, and--yes--even shopping, we really just lived it up. It was delightful and exhausting, and by the end of it, I wondered how I ever really stressed about what I had brought in my suitcase.

I know this whole dumb experiment has made me appreciate the clothes I already have, but I think that lesson is a little bigger now. Not to get too after-school-special here, but I have to say that I'm thankful for what I have beyond my closet. Like friends who are confident in themselves and who build me up, too. Like being comfortable in my own skin and really enjoying that reflection in the mirror.

So I am renewed in my promise to myself to not purchase anything til 2011. I endeavor not to ever entertain Pity Party Shannon again.

And honestly, I hope for the opportunity to shop with the girls again sometime soon.

*Kelly, this non-homeless asterisk is for you ;)

For the record, I don't like saying that I "can't" afford something. Why don't we say that we "don't" afford something?

If I choose to put ALL my money in a mortgage and car payment and only leave myself enough money leftover to live on saltines and tap water, then I am choosing not to spend money on fancy restaurants. No one's forcing me.

If I quit my job for something with saner hours and a salary cut, I'll have less money for non-shopping trips to Vegas. I'll be choosing not to afford them.

We budget our money toward what we consider a priority. We spend on some things and, consequently, choose not to spend on others. So maybe we should just say that something isn't in our budget rather than, "Oh, I can't afford that."

I'm trying to remember this when I say, "Nope, I'm not buying that," rather than, "Ohhh, I can't buy that!" Because I really don't want end up alone at that Pity Party again.

What This Means for Packing

Ladies: does packing stress you out?

I think it does for most of us, but this is usually overshadowed by the thrill of going on a trip, that fun little holiday that necessitates those agonizing moments (hours) over the open suitcase.

I ask the ladies specifically, because I don't think the guys have to break it up in pieces like we do, nor with such care and consideration.

Pieces, you ask? You know the drill: there's What You Pack The Night Before, and then What You Shove in the Bag Last-Minute Once You're Finished Beautifying Yourself Right Before You Leave for the Airport.

That in itself is a challenge. I know you all know. Staring at the outfit you chose to travel in the next morning, wondering if you should have packed it and instead should wear the closed-toed shoes through the airport so you only have to walk through the crusty security line in socks rather than pad through in your recently, ready-for-vacay, perfectly manicured footsies.

Grabbing 10 extra contact lenses in case...what? You get in 9 different staring contests within a few feet of a concrete saw? Why do we do that?

Always, always, always forgetting your razor in the shower. Your perfect razor, with the 6 or 7 blades on it, so you know you'll have to make do with those old-fashioned 3-bladed ones you'll pick up at the drugstore.

And then there's the matter of where you're going. Is the climate the same? Probably not. Is it for a special event involving folks you don't know with an ambiguous dress code? The Triple Trauma? Most assuredly.

Honestly, I think this is the universal moment here. When all of us, maybe even you dudes, look at our closets and are certain that we have nothing to wear.

And how do we work through the anxiety of those 3 foes? Seriously, can any of you imagine what 55 degrees feels like when it's been 90 degrees for 5 days in a row? I can't. I can hardly look at a sweater after this past week. It makes my skin crawl.

And how do we represent ourselves to folks we've never met, but who have heard lots about us? Hm...must look good, obviously. But if it's family on his side, must also look respectable. And don't want to dress down too far, clearly. But dressing up too much makes you look snooty.

Ah, ye olde dilemma de damsel: Must Look Hot Without Looking Skanky, Appear Effortlessly Dazzling Without Ruffling Feathers.

Is your partner helpful in such times? Never. "Nah, just wear jeans," he says. You ask if he's going to wear jeans. "No, probably nicer pants. But you could wear jeans." What? Argh.

My go-to answer, always: Pack Black. Though I love the browns and greens, black comes through again and again. Dangly earrings and heels instantly turn the black shirt/jeans into "nice" (but not ho-baggish). Little Black Dress? We all know and love you. Black heels? Thank you for all you've done for me, you know I love you.

And then, the Clincher. The ultimate backup, the thing that reminds us that it'll all be okay, the thing that helps us get proper beauty sleep the night before the trip:

If we really need something, we can just go out and buy it.

Yeah. The Beauty Sleep wasn't quite what it ought to have been last night.

Oh, well. San Francisco, here I come. Family reunion-ish thing on B's side, I am comin' at you with a suitcase full of black and a lovely variety of earrings.

And if no outfit works tomorrow night, I've got a date with a hotel bathrobe and Harry Potter. I think that'll help me sleep.

Swans and Ugly Ducklings

I don't know if this story starts with a purse or a jacket.

How about a jacket inspired by a purse? Cursed by its owner, then set free by a Swan?

(Or...clearly a story about an overly-dramatic 80s-born girl who can't let go of an article of denim. What can I say, this attachment to the perfect denim jacket was written in my 1983 stars.)

So it goes like this:

Once upon a time, in a faraway land (Florida) a young lady (Shannon) was on a quest (shopping) with family friend. That family friend acquired a lovely denim jacket, which Shannon liked very much. For you see, this jacket was no ordinary denim jacket. This jacket was lined with silk.

Never before had Shannon seen such a wondrous denim product!

Being a lady, Shannon was not jealous of the toothpick girl and her ability to fit in the tiny article of clothing, nor was she enraged that it was only available in Size Miniscule.

And, years later, when she came across a denim jacket that had a lovely cut and color, she gave thanks to the gods of fashion for making it available in her size. (Heck, she was glad someone was still making denim jackets.) Unlined and imperfect, she bought it.

But the ghost of the lined denim jacket haunted her still. Try as she might, her own piece of clothing never lived up to the lovely one she encountered years prior. Though she did take it on romantic excursions and fun trips, hoping it would somehow grow on her.

Okay, enough fairy-tale verbiage, and fast-forward to that crazy day last fall when I went into Brighton for the first time. And walked out about, ooh, um, $350 later.

Don't worry, they did give me something in exchange for that. A purse. A gorgeous, bronze, leather purse.

Let's get this straight: I never go to Brighton. Ever. The plethora of hearts and swirls and cute overwhelms me. But that day at the mall, The Purse passed me on the shoulder of another woman.

I had to make it mine. I considered wrestling her to the ground for it, but then decided to try to just get one of my own.

She told me where I could find it, and though I was certain she was kidding, she finally convinced me to walk into that fluffy place. It was a little overwhelming, but I managed to find what I was looking for.

In retrospect, I think that buying the purse might have been what ultimately led me to make this decision to abstain from new stuff for 12 months. I still can't believe I dropped the cash for that, and on such a whim.

Of course, I've loved the doggone thing every time I've worn it. Its metallic color speaks to me in a way that touches my '83 heart, in a way that only crimped hair and "Jem & The Holograms" can. Plus it's the perfect size, perfect weight, passes The Elbow Test (I can put it on with one hand without getting my elbow stuck on any part of it), etc, etc.

And for some reason, it inspired me to take matters into my own hands in the matter of the unlined jacket. Recently, while at Swan's (badass tailor who did the leather pants) to get a pair of jeans fixed (People let me walk around ALL DAY with that hole over my right butt cheek. Thanks, world.) I asked Mr. Swan if he could put a lining in a denim jacket.

Like any crazy request I throw him, he looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Oh, sure."

Oh, joy. I knew immediately I wanted it to be the same bronze color as the pricey bag I've been hauling around now these 9 months. I just needed about a yard of fabric, Swan said.

This thrilled Brendon, my boyfriend (though we prefer to call each other Partner In Crime). Because for those of you who don't know my Partner, he has an unabashedly well developed feminine side. And this meant he had the perfect reason to visit the fabric store.

So well done to Brendon for ultimately obtaining the perfect fabric, and well done to Swan for transforming an ordinary jacket into now the perfect article of denim. At this point I'm just going to show you how awesome it is, and say that for this formerly ugly denim duckling, we're going to call this Happily Ever After.

What We Need is a Montage

A Trying On Clothes With No Intention to Purchase Montage!

(If you're not familiar with this joke, please enjoy this clip from the admittedly-racy Team America movie.)

Anyway, you know how in movies people dance around happily while trying on clothes? A cool tune is playing, and they are thrilled to suddenly be...buying a prom dress, shopping with Richard Gere's credit card, or on a European Vacation couture spree.

Um, so, that sort of thing happens in real life.

Some background: I've been enjoying Anthropologie's website by morning, devouring the cute little combinations they come up with and fantasizing about them. So I decided to pop in the real store this weekend.

Oh, what a thrill! Themes of travel and seaside living gorgeously apparent in every dainty cardigan and frilly blouse. I was shopping with a smile. I think I said hello to a pair of shorts I recognized.

When I stumbled across a perfect little fluffy skirt (navy!) what more could I do than try it on? And that weird little blouse with the funny buttons and (navy!) stripes? Yes, I just had to wear them, if only for a couple of minutes!

Oh, to be in a dressing room again! To feel the thrill of...New! The huge dressing room mirror, all that space, no one aware of my existence except the attendant, and her sole purpose just...to bring me more clothes.

I think this is where the dancing began.

Seriously, I was all over that little room. The camera was flashing like mad for my personal fashion show...of 2 items.

Hey, come on, I was wearing a cool, trendy color for once (navy!) and sporting unusual buttons. It's been 4 months without a new purchase! So I had some fun.

Eventually, the attendant's polite inquiries as to my well-being brought me back to reality (and down off the little stool in the room...my, um, dancing platform).

Okay, actually, my camera ran out of battery. End of montage.

I left the dressing room with the skirt and shirt, feeling like I couldn't really give them back to the attendant after hijacking clothes and stall for however long I'd checked out of reality there.

Back they went into that little corner, re-racked and ready for someone else's show. And I wasn't really too sad about it. I guess I went dancing in a cute new outfit, which is quite enough for now.

Loud and Clear

A couple of weeks ago, I experienced true, raw fear.

No, it wasn't when I realized I couldn't indulge in a new pair of open-toe wedges. Though that comes close.

It was in the middle of the night. Brendon was offshore. And I heard the loudest middle-of-the-night sound since the hurricane.

I sat straight up, heart racing, totally blind. Five seconds of terror to remember I sleep with an eye mask...that's why my glasses wouldn't go on may face. Another five seconds to properly remove retainer, remove eye mask, don the glasses (yes, I'm very pretty in bed).

At this point, I can tell the closet light is on. I've also begun to process the sound. Other than super loud, it was kinda...metallic. I kept thinking a tree had hit the house, a fair consideration after the three that kissed our roof during Ike.

But everything was silent. Including my eerily illuminated closet. Pulse racing, I peeked out the blinds, expecting to see a huge trunk where it ought not be.

Nothing.

Suddenly, I was certain the noise had come from inside. Perhaps the closet! (Why oh why do I think these things when I'm scared? An intruder decided to bust inside and...raid my closet? Surely everyone knows by now that there's nothing remotely new in there! And of course he'd turn on the light to do so.)

Suddenly even more terrified that I might not be alone in my room, I run out into the living room. Nobody's out there, and now I'm thinking I ought to go outside and drive away. But all I can think about is pants. As in, I'm not wearing any. I can't go outside and get in the car without pants!

Agony. My heartbeat actually hurts. I wildly check out a few more blinds, still seeing the very boring nothingness out there.

And then Reason finally decides to saunter back. Took her sweet time. She suggests I go back to the closet, the only thing that doesn't make sense in this otherwise-normal-1:30am scene.

I approach the closet, trembling and pantless, rather like cops approach bad guys on tv: back against the wall, sliding toward it, then whirl around to face it!

And it's a mess. Suddenly, my adrenaline gives way to irritation. Messes usually bug me, what can I say?

And I realize that the waves of clothes flooding the floor are the result of the 3 shelves that decided, just minutes before and during my peaceful, albeit unattractive slumber, to detach from the walls. With gusto. With noisy gusto. Flipping the switch of the light in the process.

Ah, relief. Ah, embarrassment. Ah...maybe there are too many clothes in there.

Oh, no. My closet is communicating with me.

Is there any more obvious way for an overstuffed inanimate object to tell me that I could stand a good Clothing Purge Session? Shannon, GIVE SOME OF YOUR CLOTHES AWAY.

Okay, I hear it, loud and clear. My closet spoke, and I listened.

Which is how, in the midst of total shopping abstinence, I managed to produce a skirt for Goodwill.

Brendon raised an eyebrow at the singularity of my donation, but I did point out that it was a big skirt, quite heavy in fact, and that some girl out there with generous hips would love it. And that it should make our closet breathe a bit easier. In case it should decide to give me another midnight message.

And just in case, I now take my jammy pants to bed.

My Wanton Wanting

This is not going the way I thought it would.

This little test of mine came to me on a whim while driving through Nowhere, TX after the Christmas holidays, and at the time I just envisioned a different experience.

Oh, sure, I've experienced the anticipated frustration at not buying the clothes I want.

But frustration has been shadowed by deep embarrassment, the latter of which has been the major aspect of my experience so far. And not one I've really wanted to write about.

So I've avoided my promised chronicling of this for about a month now. Okay, enough. I'm coming clean:

I can't believe I haven't needed something yet. That's it. That's the source of the silence.

I have shoes to run in. I have both jeans and dress pants for work. I have my beloved jammy pants.

Cardigans? Check.

A dress for a wedding/baby/bridal shower? Check, check, and check.

Shorts for the weekend? Check.

Holy cow, I have a lot. The opulence of my closet was never so apparent to me.

And oh, it gets worse.

A black pencil skirt? No, not "a." The correct modifier would be "some." Because I have 2. And another black mini. And then 2 more, but in leather.

A button-down shirt for work? Again, I amend--some button-down shirts for work: 3 long-sleeve, and then...oh, wow, 6 short-sleeve. I don't even want to say that out loud.

This is my embarrassment--that I have enough. I have more than enough. Not even planning for this silly venture into the limits of my self-control, I already had enough.

Three pairs of blue shoes. Yeah, it's my signature color, but really? Three? Not necessary, Shannon.

So I ask myself: how can I still want to go shopping? Why on earth do I see ads for Victoria's Secret swimsuits and still want another one? Why does watching Coco Before Chanel make me long for some gauzy, new summer clothes? Why do I moan a little when I look at the dresses in Anthropologie?

I guess it's my conditioning. I've let myself shop and buy what I want for a long time now, and my lack of need now just screams out how unchecked I went.

I've been humbled. I'm still feeling it, and it'll surely continue.

Yet I'm equally as sure I'll still go into Nine West and drool a little on their sandals display.

I apologize to the world in general, to Karma, to those who don't have enough, to whomever I ought to to make this right. I acknowledge that it sucks that many people in the world long for just one pair of shoes, while right now I'm longing for just one more.

But I also know that this hasn't hit me so hard that I plan to give away all my stuff & take up in a hut with just a pillowcase for clothes. Why? Am I a weenie? Probably. Do I look bad in pillowcases? Quite likely. So it's just delivered enough of a blow to shut me up for a few weeks.

Well, no longer. I'm going to bluntly put it out there--all my selfish feelings, my consumer impulses, and my confused feelings of guilt.

Starting with this: if I come across the field of sunflowers made for lounging in that gorgeous white dress at Anthropologie, there's going to be some serious self-control necessary. I know I have a closet full of clothes, but I've clearly spelled out the wanton purchasing shame of my past life. And I will say that in my fantasies--also full of yachts and Ritz-Carltons and perfect hair days--that dress and I have a date with a lazy, sunny afternoon. And cute sandals.