Getting Dressed

For the first few weeks after January 8th, I really didn't think about my clothes.  Hospital gowns were fine for meeting the President and First Lady, fine for walks with the physical therapist through the hallways, fine for going to x-ray. 

The only time clothes became an issue was when I wanted to go out in front of the hospital and roll through the memorial garden.  The kind nurses found me scrubs and The Bride handed me the girls' sweatshirt and I was good to go.  When I returned to my room, my cell phone was ringing.  Big Cuter was laughing as he greeted me with "Nice yellow socks, Mom."  CNN had me on a continuous loop, my bright yellow hospital gripping socks attracting my son's attention more than my teary face. 

Clothes make the woman?  Let's hope not.

Once I was home, TBG's elastic waist gym clothes were my go-to outfits.  This plan was short lived, as the physical therapist didn't want me tripping over their length and TBG found himself without proper attire for his own life.  Those over-large waistbands were lovely, though.  I was so swollen and so stapled that there were very few places on which fabric was comfortable.  Too-Big was suddenly Just-Right.

Then the gifts started flowing in.  Cousin Victoria sent comfy more-than-pajamas.  My hiking buddies brought me flat waisted yoga pants.  Not only was I comfortable, I was wearing new clothes.  That brought a smile directly to my face.

Belt loops and snaps and zippers - my waist has issues with them all.  Sitting as I do for most of the day, I found that anything metallic made a permanent impression on my delicate skin.  Bending over was a nightmare, as poking and prodding from my pants added to the general discomfort I was feeling.  I went back to elastic waists.

Gym shorts work well when I'm not entertaining or leaving the house.  I'm just not comfortable pretending that I've come from lifting weights when it's so obvious that I haven't.  Two pairs of hiking pants are pull-ups and they've become staples in my current rotation.  I have a long black skirt and several full flowery skirts and a short khaki one that sits on my hips but, as I found out quite quickly this morning, is not something you want to wear when CNN is filming you.  (Watch for me tomorrow, sometime.)  59 year old thighs need more camouflage than that particular item was providing.  Even in shape 59 year old thighs.

Sigh.

Through it all, I've been in t-shirts on top.  I like them extra large, so that posture and underwear and general slovenliness is hidden behind lots of fabric.  I've gotten shirts from races and concerts and baseball games since January 8th.  I have oodles of oldies but goodies jammed into every nook and cranny of my closet.  I have shopping bags full of ones too hole-y to wear but too dear to throw away.  I have some that are scratchy and some that are softer than soft,  and I love them all.

But there's one which has risen to the top.  Martin sent it to me, all the way from the UK.  He asked me to wear it and wondered if I'd write about it and then I got shot and it sat on the shelf until I found it.  And put it on.  And took it off to shower but put it back on again.  I slept in it and it wasn't wrinkly when I woke up so I took another shower and put it on once more.  This all started last Sunday; here it is Thursday afternoon and I've managed to wear it for most or all of every day this week.  There are no stains or odors attached, there's just comfort and coverage and the relief of knowing that what's covering my upper body requires no thought or planning. 

I just grab Mr. Monkey and I'm good to go.

http://www.tshirtprinting.net/

Now, it is true that TBG thought that Mr. Monkey was a house with a chimney, but in his defense he was standing above and behind me and there was a wrinkle through Mr. M's mouth.  From my vantage point, though, he's a smiley yellow bundle of laughs, hugging me as I think about Christina and weep. 

She'd have liked this one, I'm sure.  I even have earrings that match