CALL WARDROBE

I DON’T KNOW how many of you suckled on Victoriana, those hot-blooded, heaving-bosomed romances of aristocrats and their lessers, or historic murder mysteries, even the venerable Sherlock Holmes may partly fall into this category. Dinner required black or white tie, silk gowns for the ladies.  Morning dresses for, well, morning. Then day dresses, possibly suited to going outdoors. Let’s not even get started on the hunt! Each activity called for a servant-assisted change of habiliment. I realize now that much of that was based in the need to while away the hours and give the servants something to do.

I DO NOT HAVE SERVANTS

 Time, yes. However I find myself in a furiously contradictory state when it comes to clothing. Sweats, all day every day. Of course. But minute differences in actions or locale require sartorial adjustments that the Empress of India herself could favor.

For example, I sleep in a tee shirt and panties. When I wake, I run to the kitchen to start Mr. Coffee, already set up the night before with coffee and water (Peets French Roast and Decal French Roast.) This makes me cold, so I grab my sweatshirt, a hooded one with pockets. Various ablutions ensue, and voila, in 6 minutes my coffee is ready. I heat the cup, pour in 1/3 cup of milk, then back to bed for a leisurely scroll through emails. But the hood of the sweatshirt bunches uncomfortably behind my neck. Not to worry. I have and ancient baggy cashmere cardigan too pilled to wear out and about. I switch the sweatshirt with the offending bulk for this yummy soft garment, and, heaven. I love these few moments with my coffee in bed.

Then it’s time for OFFICIAL WIFE DUTIES to start. Because of the roomy pockets, I switch back to the sweatshirt, put my phone, empty cup, whatever ice-pack I had used the night before for whatever reminder of my age was hurting the night before, in them and bustle off to the kitchen. The sleeves of the sweatshirt are long, so they double as potholders, taking heated blueberry syrup out of microwave, reheating my coffee, etc. Frying pan handle.

I make our “green” drink, curate our pills for the day, and finish making breakfast.

This is where I differ from the Victorians (in addition to no servants) because I do not change outfits to eat. I give husband his bacon and eggs and gluten-free whatever (pancakes on weekend, toast or bagel weekdays—yeah, yeah, what is a weekend? Believe me, he keeps track.)

WE discuss the news if we can bear to, and eat (hot buttered baguette for me!

Crossword finished, I gather up things, using roomy pockets and clean up. Back to bed for 2^nd coffee, so back to cashmere. I fear this is becoming monotonous. Only two outfits so far. I read part of a Stuart Woods novel, so I can vicariously live a wealthy life in Manhattan, and have oodles of climactic sex.

VARIOUS housekeeping chores occupy me, so I switch to sweat shorts and a tank top. I clean, wash, do laundry. Oops, is it noon? Time for my workout. I rush to the bathroom where my exercise togs closet is, switch to a leopard top with shelf bra and black spandex capris.

I roll out my yoga mat, choose a workout online, and force myself through 45 minutes of core barre. 

WIPE down mat, shower, and… tada...

Time for a NEW OUTFIT! Squeaky clean, I select a clean, similar-but-different hooded, long-sleeved sweatshirt, new sweatpants,  and face the afternoon, FaceTime with grandkids, usually, or husband plays online poker with his family in Colorado and New Jersey. It sounds riotously fun, so I plan to join one day soon.

Oh, and I bought a gorgeous tie-dyed mask from my friend Wendy’s online store, Polkadots and Moonbeams in case I need to go out. Last week I was dodging the cops down on the beach, kinda fun, but now they are opening it up for bikes and walkers again. Soon, I think.

Needless to say, going out requires different clothes. The mask is cute, but I don’t even try coordinating with the blue plastic gloves.