I entered the Banana Republic in Union Square in Manhattan on a mission. My goal was to buy new clothes that would elevate me above my current status as human wallpaper.
I’m a pretty average looking person and normally I’m ok with that. I have a good life, possess great friends and a wonderful family. But occasionally I wish I stood out just a little bit. It hurts when people don’t remember having met me until after we’ve been introduced two or three times. It makes me feel as undistinguished as my beige zip-up L. L. Bean fleece. I think it’s a holdover from high school when I felt like the ultimate misfit. Everyone wants to feel pretty and popular, right?
The second I entered Banana Republic, I knew I’d come to the right place. Beneath the glow of track-mounted halogen spotlights, the new fall line looked glamorous yet unpretentious. Clothes I could wear to work and to my twelve-year-old daughter, Lindsey’s, soccer games. I knew clothing was a superficial approach to fixing my problem, like putting lipstick on a pig. But I also realized that if I ever did see a pig wearing lipstick—that was definitely something I would remember forever.
Unfortunately, shopping for clothes when feeling desperate is like grocery shopping hungry—it makes you vulnerable. Inside Banana Republic, I was overcome by of the scent of linen. A pack of stylized mannequins seduced me; their elongated limbs resembling twigs in a minimalist Japanese flower arrangement. Like real supermodels, these mannequins had been raised on a diet of low-cal, fat-free, sugar-free air.
I felt light headed. Perhaps I was intoxicated by the thrill of being in Manhattan. Or maybe I was disoriented from breathing in low-hanging clouds of automotive exhaust. Whatever it was, my resistance was down. I bought the illusion the mannequins presented: I too could have an elegant torso, Audrey Hepburn neck, and slender fingers without bulbous knuckles, if I bought these clothes. A buffet of casual-chic camis, ribbed v-neck cardigans and tonal pinstripe slacks in colors like Café au Lait, Almond Creme and Morning Taupe.
I purchased with reckless abandon.
When I got home, I realized that I’d bought an entire wardrobe of beige. I almost cried. Wearing clothes that matched my suburban neighbors’ vinyl siding wasn’t going to make me stand out.
Over the next year or so, I attempted to rectify my wardrobe dysfunction with coordinating pieces. I bought belts, jackets, and a wrap cardigan with a shawl collar. Unfortunately, the in color during this period was chocolate brown. I went from the color of a melted Frappuccino to the color of a melted Frappuccino with a smattering of chocolate sprinkles. Negligible change.
The day I came home with a pair of brown slacks my daughter pointed out how badly I’d failed in achieving my goal. “Mom, your clothes are blah,” she said.
Her words stung. Because she was right.
I started dragging Lindsey along on shopping trips to advise me. We visited malls, boutiques and department stores. Eventually we wandered into Second Time Around, a consignment store. Lindsey immediately gravitated to a green and white paisley print Lily Pulitzer sundress. I spied a blazer. The label read Barneys New York.
Barneys. It was a dream come true. I giggled like an adolescent girl with a new crush. Along with Bendels and Bergdoffs, Barneys is one of the three magical Bs of Manhattan—legendary stores frequented by the wealthy and beautiful. The girls on Sex in the City and Gossip Girl shop at Barneys. How could I not make an impression clad in a Barneys blazer?
I rushed into the dressing room. The blazer fit perfectly. I assessed myself in the mirror, first standing normally, and then with my hands on my hips and my head tilted sideways. I felt oddly euphoric, as though I’d been transformed into a better—and definitely more memorable—version of myself.
I called Lindsey over. She eyed me up and down. “No,” she said.
“What do you mean ‘No?’”
“No. I don’t like it.”
I was crushed. Lindsey obviously didn’t understand. The blazer was from Barneys. I decided to trust my instinct. I marched the blazer to the register feeling taller and thinner than when I’d entered the store. Finally I was going to stand out.
When I got home, it occurred to me: the Barneys blazer was beige. I hadn’t even noticed. Was this the universe’s way of sending me a message?
Maybe I needed to embrace who I am and stop worrying about what other people think. I have wonderful friends and a great family. I’ve been out of high school for a long time. It doesn’t matter whether or not strangers notice me.
Then again, the blazer might just look magnificent paired with the right scarf. A deep rust maybe…