Center of the World

As a child my parents believed that I needed to be taught that there was more to the world than my own wishes and demands. As the youngest member of the family, the third child, I accepted that I was fifth in line to any attention. Of course my hard done by emotions were not truly reflective of the reality in which I lived. It seemed to me that I was the only member of the family to be asked to wear second hand clothes and accept that my sister's cast off jersey was now something I should wear with a degree of pride. I would place a long suffering expression on my face and utter the words that were expected. Then in the privacy of the bathroom I would mutter and moan. Look in the mirror and announce to the cabinet that I was going to make so much money when I was an adult that I would never have to wear the same cardigan twice unless I chose to. No doubt my parents heard the performance and did the right thing - they ignored it.

As the years passed I grew taller and more curvaceous than my sister so there was no possibility of receiving her old clothes. My clothes were all made by my mother. Having something shop bought was not something that was even discussed. My brother had his clothes bought for him. My sister went out to work and thus escaped the home made clothing issue. I was left with the measure tape, pins, needles and grimaces. I dreaded even suggesting that I needed a new dress because it meant that I had to meet my mother in town in order to look for a pattern and material. We would meet at Greatermans or Meikles, rarely Barbers, both with an air of desperation. The large pattern books would be opened. My eyes would scan the pages faster than my mother's. I would lean back on the chair and begin to sigh. She would calmly, at this stage, turn the page and continue looking.

Then the discussions began. I like this, but what about your hips ... What about this ... yes if I was 90! This one would be nice ... are you planning on going undercover as a hooker! Then there is this one ... thanks but I would rather wear a bathrobe! Well My Dear (she always managed to capitlise her words when annoyed) We Can Always Arrange That!

Eventually we would settle on some basic dress form. Then onwards and downwards to buy the material. Let me just make one remark: my sister owns a photo of me in a pants suit of such brilliant colours that if aliens had landed they would have mistaken me for a large tropical plant! Should I ever become a successive writer she will be able to blackmail for untold millions with that single photo. I do admit that more often than not the material was decent - if you did not want anything really modern. Oh well .. I would sigh and cast longing looks at the mannequins as I walked fifteen paces behind my mother. A sad expression on my face I would lean against the counter as the material was measured and paid for all the while contemplating a future fill of clothing selected on the basis of my superior taste without any consideration for cost.

Decades later ... I walk past the windows of Neumann Marcus and sigh. The mannequins are young, their figures appropriately youthful - they are after all plastic. The clothes look great. They even look great when I look at them on their hangers. Once I have them in the fitting room something terrible happens. They become narrow in the wrong places and loose in places I would rather not expose. Hips grow 5 inches (on either side), bottom bulges, thighs ... well they do what thighs do ... bust grows by 5 inches ... and all the time I am thinking 'Where is my mother when I need her!'

Where is that tape measure that so carefully, and accurately, measured my curves? Where is the cutter who managed to add and subtract inches in all the right places when cutting out the material? Who knew that the simple, well made scoop neck, cape sleeved dress of thirty five years ago would become a much longed for treasure as I wonder around the store trying to appease my growing sense of dismay with phrases such as 'designers hate women', 'no real woman could ever wear that!' etc. And yet the women at the counter with their purchases all seem to be exceptionally pleased with what they found on offer within the concrete walls of the department store. I stare at the racks of look a-likes and 63 identical dresses as I contemplate finding a bathroom, closing the door and announcing to the mirror that I am going to make so much money when I am not much older that I will never have to wear anything off the rack but will have a dress maker ....

Then I smile. Life is fill of these moments. When the sun shines we want rain. When it is a picture perfect snow day we want summer. When we are 12 we want boobs and when we are 52 we want them smaller. Our dogs are to big, our bank balances to small, our wants become needs and life is fill of what we had and lost or want and can't have. And the sun shines, the breeze blows and the earth revolves around the sun not me. I just have to keep going into stores and remembering to laugh at the image in the mirror until that moment when one day I will find that perfect dress, that fits just like the ones made for me.

Just one thing, if you are listening gods, please, please let it not be in neon green!