Not Chill Enough


About done browsing, Thursday at Gift & Thrift, I spied Towering Grandboy—oh, and Mom, too. Grandboy’s summer job ahead, he had to get clothes.

While he tried on shirts in a fitting room, the clipboard lady keeping track, Mom and I stood by the women’s racks and yapped. Other shoppers wandered past, no doubt overhearing but politely keeping any thoughts to themselves (Can’t those two just shut up?). At one point, Grandboy’s head peering over the fitting-room door gave me quite the start. Usually a person must talk through the wood to get someone else’s attention, or if they want to see what’s going on in the world, push the door open. His sky height, Grandboy had only to put his head in the transom-like gap above the door.

The shirts needed to at least reach his waist. Across the chest they couldn’t squeeze his pectorals. Each selection, he’d step forth, Mom’d give him the once-over and make her snap judgment, and he’d again retreat behind the door. She was in a hurry. She dislikes scrounging. She dislikes anything that takes up her time.

We went on nattering. She was telling me about ThredUp. ThredUp has fabulous stuff, she’d heard, and an $80 order gets a person free shipping. Which maybe sounds reasonable, but I never spend $80 at a pop, not for clothing. I said to Mom, “Yeah, you can go on—” But my mind went blank. I couldn’t say which website. Not Pinterest.

I gave it another try. “I went on, um, um—” I still couldn’t dredge it up. Trying to think, I patted at my shirt, one I’d found on the website. I’d seen the very same thing at Gift & Thrift, too small, and had managed to locate a medium. Was it ugly, though? Was that what she thought?

Matter of fact, before running into Mom and Grandboy, I’d held myself a fitting-room session. I’d taken a bunch of pants in. The one pair, I loved them as soon as I put them on, but I couldn’t shut them. Then I remembered what I could do. I took photos.

 


I could look for 8s. 

Lolling near the lady with the clipboard, I didn’t show Mom, nor did I wave the too-smalls in front of her—I’d returned them to the rack. Bother her? What did she care? Scrounging for Grandboy was trial enough. She wanted out of there. Instead, noticing a T-shirt she was holding, her size, I went off to search for some that weren’t so blah. Per her stipulations, they couldn’t be V-necks. Only crew necks, not stretched out. No words on front. Had to be long enough. Had to have sleeves. No wonder she couldn’t bear looking, even for herself.

Soon, boring T-shirts in hand, and Grandboy’s stash, Mom and he were gone. They had more places to go. Actual stores, I think.

Later, at home, I got on Poshmark. That’s right—Poshmark. And I found 8s, the same American Eagle, the same green, the same 98% Lyocell / 2% Elastane, my word. Now, though, I’m wondering if they’ll catch underneath my feet, drag in the mud. The 4s were already long enough. 

We’ll see.


I’ve figured out why Poshmark (I think). Posh trademark. But that’s no guarantee. And if you go and look, the sellers just hang up their clothing or splat it on the floor, all wrinkled. How easy is that? As with prettychillshop, the seller in Florida who listed my pants, they’re only obligated to state the price, condition, details. And then ship.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’d be a snap. Well, not the shipping. I can see the fun, though. I can see trying it.



 

 


   

 

 

 

 

Skirt, very fine. Last worn at Anne Marie’s wedding ten years ago. Silk? Flippy hem. 34 inches to the handkerchief corners.

 


 

 

 

 




 

Top, nothing my daughter would want. Cushy soft peach fabric.

 

 





 


 

  

 

Skirt, peach too. Something else she wouldn’t be caught dead in. No holes yet. Gossamer weight, slip required. Must have a slip.








 

 

 

Shorts, too short for old legs. Cotton, airy as clouds. Drawstring removed with some difficulty, now no clothesline rope hanging down. Can be pajamas. 




 

 

 

 

 

Sweater, not needed anymore. All the black I have and it’s always collecting hairs. Another black item of mine, kind of a crocheted throw-on, the crochet holes catch on furniture when I’m walking around and I have to rear back and unhook myself.

 

But I guess this is as far as I’ll go.

When I’m done with my clothes, or when I’m gone (same thing), they’ll hang again on the junk-store racks or go dust to dust like me. I’m not prettychillenough, myself. It’s enough of a job just to shop.


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