Ann Taylor Lowey Metallic Leather Flats
I received what would have been--pre-the-passing-of-Maryclaire--an innocuous promotional email from Ann Taylor that I would have sent straight into the trash. But a flash of silver and gold caught my eye, and it stirred memories. I had to investigate. As I thought, this company was promoting an end of the season sale on flats. I looked at the simple design and the matte metallic surface, and my mind turned to Maryclaire again. The shoes reminded me of her signature look when we lived together in Boston. Was there ever a time when we shared an apartment on Knapp Street in Somerville or Fairmont Avenue in Cambridge that she didn't have a pair of silver flats? No. Like an exotic bird, she was drawn to shiny objects that sparkled and so made her stand out from all the sparrows that tend to populate the American northeast.
Maryclaire had always been a stylin' woman, even in high school. In fact, after her passing, we three--Susan, Cindy and myself--all took turns remembering Maryclaire's teenage bedroom with astounding detail. Designed by Laura Ashley, it was filled with white wicker, ivory fabric ruffles, and, my favorite, a free-standing mirror that seemed pulled from the last days of the nineteenth century. The room looked over a pristine front yard--deep green grass and a wooden fence--on Huntington Turnpike in Trumbull, Connecticut. We spent countless hours there. We were filled with angst back then, but we would all recognize today that we were unbelievably lucky to have such an idyllic site for discussing the latest "on-dits" of our social network, for watching the John Hughes film "Sixteen Candles," and for planning our next adventures in New Haven or Cape Cod.
As my memories of Maryclaire shifted and moved back in time to the mid-1980s, I moved from the web page of Ann Taylor to that of Laura Ashley. I scan the dresses and home furnishings of this company for the first time in twenty-five years. Although Maryclaire's bedroom was romantic and unapologetically feminine, Laura Ashley was a precursor for that shabby-chic look that came to define Maryclaire in the early 1990s. In fact, when we lived together in Boston, we would occasionally visit the Laura Ashley boutique on Newbury Street, now gone, dreaming of a day when we could purchase those designer clothes without regard for the price. As I look today at the web site, I recognize--with a bit of amazement--that I am now a professor earning a decent salary, and so I can purchase such frivolous fashion fare at will. I resolve to buy a dress in Maryclaire's memory. I admit, this is commercial therapy gone absolutely haywire.
Alas, I am forced even in this--admittedly immature and futile--mourning ritual to confront my feelings about BED. Laura Ashley no longer produces those elaborate flowered dresses of the mid-1980s, I am surprised to find. And so, I settle on the space dye shift dress, which is retro and so edgier than the designs I remember perusing with Maryclaire. It is dark gray and turquoise fitted sleeveless jumper intended to be worn over a dark turtleneck. However, the fashion industry conspires against women whose bodies do not conform to an idealized set of measurements. I just miss the cut, for I am a size 18, and Laura Ashley does not serve women who are larger than a size 16.
This commercial observance during a nostalgic shopping trip designed to jog memories of my dead friend forces me reflect on whether or not I should accept my body--and perhaps even love it--as it is? Or do I take my inability to find clothes that fit as a signifier of how overweight I have become and now work hard enough--via diet and exercise--so that I can purchase a Laura Ashley dress? I do not seek to resolve this question; I want only to acknowledge that BED taints my everyday life in ways I have not always recognized.
As my memories of Maryclaire shifted and moved back in time to the mid-1980s, I moved from the web page of Ann Taylor to that of Laura Ashley. I scan the dresses and home furnishings of this company for the first time in twenty-five years. Although Maryclaire's bedroom was romantic and unapologetically feminine, Laura Ashley was a precursor for that shabby-chic look that came to define Maryclaire in the early 1990s. In fact, when we lived together in Boston, we would occasionally visit the Laura Ashley boutique on Newbury Street, now gone, dreaming of a day when we could purchase those designer clothes without regard for the price. As I look today at the web site, I recognize--with a bit of amazement--that I am now a professor earning a decent salary, and so I can purchase such frivolous fashion fare at will. I resolve to buy a dress in Maryclaire's memory. I admit, this is commercial therapy gone absolutely haywire.
Alas, I am forced even in this--admittedly immature and futile--mourning ritual to confront my feelings about BED. Laura Ashley no longer produces those elaborate flowered dresses of the mid-1980s, I am surprised to find. And so, I settle on the space dye shift dress, which is retro and so edgier than the designs I remember perusing with Maryclaire. It is dark gray and turquoise fitted sleeveless jumper intended to be worn over a dark turtleneck. However, the fashion industry conspires against women whose bodies do not conform to an idealized set of measurements. I just miss the cut, for I am a size 18, and Laura Ashley does not serve women who are larger than a size 16.
This commercial observance during a nostalgic shopping trip designed to jog memories of my dead friend forces me reflect on whether or not I should accept my body--and perhaps even love it--as it is? Or do I take my inability to find clothes that fit as a signifier of how overweight I have become and now work hard enough--via diet and exercise--so that I can purchase a Laura Ashley dress? I do not seek to resolve this question; I want only to acknowledge that BED taints my everyday life in ways I have not always recognized.
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