The Skinny

“I don’t like these. ”

“So try another pair.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you’re going to anyway. Because that is how normal people buy clothes. Not out of a catalogue.”

The tone in Safety’s voice makes catalogue shopping sound one notch above greased pig catching.

I prevaricate a bit more. She holds fast. “We’re not leaving here without a pair of pants.”

“I have pants.”

“You have baggy, old lady pants. And I’m going to throw them away when we get home, so find something you like or you’ll be running around in your panties.”

“They aren’t that baggy.”

She arches a brow. I arch one back. We have a stare down.

Never have a stare down with a Navajo woman. They always win.

I look away first.

“Stella, you’re hiding inside sloppy clothes and baggy pants.”

“So what? I’m old. I’m a grandmother.” And I’m alone. And I’m divorced. And I’m practically homeless, for heaven’s sake.

 “You don’t seem to me like the type of person to hide from things.”

Tears prick my eyes. She has no idea. No idea.

“I wasn’t always this way,” I tell her.

“You don’t have to be someone else, anymore” she says, gently taking my arm and guiding me into a store. “You can just be you, now.”

Okay, so maybe she knows more than she’s letting on.

Inside the store, I find myself drifting toward the old lady clothes. Safety heads me off at the pass. “Here,” she says, handing me a pair of blingy jeans with legs that look like spaghetti. “Try these.”

I push them away. “I couldn’t fit my arm in there. Are you kidding?”

Her look told me no.

Into the dressing room I go, burdened like a camel crossing the desert. I hate everything and I tell her so.

“Come out and let me see.”

“Stand in front of the door. I’m not parading around the store looking for you.”

Cautiously, I peer outside the dressing room. There she is. Waiting. I take one very small step outside. She motions for me to turn around.

“Better, but not exactly right. You need more...Oomph.”

Is oomph a new word for butt? I decide yes. “I have no oomph. I’m oomph-deficient.”

“You have one. It’s just hiding under the wrong clothes. Let’s go. We’ll try another store.”

And we do. Like miners in search of gold, we pan in every store in the mall before we’re through. In the fourth store, one that caters to size 00 teenagers, I find my first shiny thing: A pair of ‘curvy’ jeans that actually look okay and give my backside a little ‘oomph’. Excited, I step out of the dressing room. Safety nods approval, hands me a pair of cargos, and disappears again. A few minutes later, she returns with a pair of gorgeous black booties dangling from her fingertips.

Shoes. My weakness.

“Try these.”

I slip my feet into the black leather straps and stand in front of the mirror. Skinny black cargos encase my legs, which appear magically longer, thanks to the booties. Flapped pockets on the derriere give the illusion of oomph.

“You like?” she asks.

 “I think I do.” I turn sideways, patting my little muffin-top. “What about this?”

“We’ll work on that. C’mon, put on your baggies. We have to find tops.”

We hit the mother-lode in Aeropostole. And it’s there that Safety notices my bra.

“When’s the last time you bought a bra? And where?”

“Does Walmart count?”

She sighs. “Let’s pay for this stuff. We have one more stop to make.”

By the time we are through, Victoria has no secrets left. And I am the proud owner of a very practical beige bra...And it’s twin sister, in Hot Pink. I have no idea where I’ll ever wear such a thing, but it makes me feel feminine just to know it’s nestled in the bag.

I end up with three pair of jeans, a pair of cargos, a pair of capris and a pair of short shorts, several shirts, a few camisoles, two bras, a new perfume and those fabulous black heels.

In the car, I begin to doubt the wisdom of buying the booties. “I work six days a week. When am I ever going to wear those shoes?”

“When I take you out,” she says and slips the car into drive.

Out? Terror fills me. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to meet people. What kind of ‘out’ is she talking about? ‘Out’ out? Or just…. Out?

I wipe away a bead of sweat. Just the thought of being around people can make me clammy. Jiminy, when did I become agoraphobic?

She laughs. “You’re getting all worked up. Chewing your lip. Stop it.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that. For ‘out’.”

“You’re not,” she agrees. “But, in time, you will be.”

I seriously doubt it. But then, I didn’t think I’d ever own a pair of skinny jeans, either.