Why bother?

It was a classic case of wardrobe meltdown. I stood in front of my closet, trying not to bite my nails (must save remains of nails for New Year manicure), and getting more and more frustrated. I was reaching the point when I had decided that I would be unable to go to work. I had nothing, nothing, to wear. I knew that I had gaps in my wardrobe but I hadn't realised that they had grown into massive craters.

It either didn't fit, the necessaray matching piece was not clean, or even worse it was packed in my suitcase. The things packed in my suitcase gave me great trouble. Did I need them to be clean? Or could I wash them upon arrival? "Hi Mum, can you wash all this for me?" I discarded the idea.

The pile of rejects grew, my nails started disappearing, and my frustration level grew. My fall back of black no longer existed. My black pants were no longer wearable. In desperation, I decided to aim for my black skirt. The first pair of black tights I found had a massive run in the heel. It felt like it would grow. I kept digging and finally located another pair.

Now that my bottom half was covered, I turned to the matter of the top half. Easy, black wool turtle neck. It used to belong to my Mum, like most of my better clothing. Vintage, darling and endless confusion as to why your mother was so much thinner than you. I pulled it over my head and looked in the mirror. Tah Dah! I'm dressed! And then I saw it, a very noticeable hole at the neck. In desperation, I looked for something to hide it. Anything!

My eyes lighted on my mother's black and white silk scarf. I'm not a fan of scarves. They always feel contrived to me. Today however, I was going to wear a scarf. I tied it round my neck, cleverly placing it on an angle so that the large floppy bow covered the hole.

I was relieved. I could now go to work.

Once at work, I had a lady walk by, turn and come back to tell me she liked my outfit. One of my co-workers appeared stunned when I appeared to ask him a question. He proclaimed it elegant. They were both French. The French are supposed to know a thing or two about being well dressed.

It was my secret chuckle all day. I had reached the French sophistication level of dressing and if I moved in the wrong direction, my outfit was going to literally fall apart. I'm going to buy more black (it always matches) and more scarves. I hear you can hide bad hair days with them too. I mean, why bother?