The Big Bang Theory
October 16, 2007
Deborah has been trying to grow out her bangs, and she alternates between hiding them under a hat and holding them on top of her head with a hair clip. She threatens to cut them at least once a day. I liked the way it looked this morning, and I said so. "You look awesome," I said. "Sexy. I like your hair."
She looked at me the way an exasperated teacher might look at the class clown, then sighed, and continued stomping around the apartment the way she sometimes does, hating her outfit, hating her hair, throwing clothes and shoes in every direction.
"I look like one of those girls," she said, as she stood in front of the mirror brushing pieces of hair from one side of her face to the other, and then back again.
"What girls?" I said.
"One of those girls you see everywhere with boots and big sunglasses."
She hadn't put on any sunglasses yet, but was wearing boots. I knew the girls she meant. If I look out the window right now, I'll probably catch one on her way to the subway.
Deborah ripped off her shirt and threw it across the room, then kicked off her boots and wriggled out of her jeans.
I kept my distance. Kept my mouth shut. I enjoy watching her change clothes, slipping into and out of various outfits, some that need bras and others that don't, but I do my best to just steal glances and not look too long or hard. And struggle not to say a word.
She tried again with a pair of tights under a sleeveless dress of blue jersey, and a different pair of boots, then stomped across the room and looked at herself in the mirror again.
"Ugh. I look like a fucking American Apparel ad," she said, and then put on a sweatshirt and said, "That's a little better."
"Yeah, that sweatshirt you got at American Apparel helps." So much for keeping my mouth shut. "I'm teasing," I said.
"I'm not a twelve-year-old girl. I can't fucking dress like this."
"I liked your first outfit," I said. "You looked sexy and sophisticated."
She didn't buy it. Or if she did, it didn't carry much weight.
"I'm gonna be late," she said.
"Wear what you have on. It looks good."
She didn't respond or react, just tossed off the American Apparel ensemble and threw together a low-key jeans and T-shirt look. She piled her hair under a hat, put on some flat shoes, and said, "Okay. This works."
"Why don't we go shopping this weekend?" I said.
She shrugged and threw her house keys into her bag.
"At a store for grownups."
October 21, 2007
Deborah and I went uptown to where the big kids shop to see if Deborah could find some clothes to match her new self image. We even pretended we were rich and stepped into Bergdorf-Goodman for a minute. We only looked at one price tag before Deborah was overcome with the depression of earthly desires and said, "Let's go."
We peeked in Tiffany's too, just for the hell of it. I shouldn't have been surprised to find that it was as much a tourist attraction as it was a store, since that's how we were approaching it. The revolving door looked like the paddle of a steamship churning through a river of people. We flowed over the carpet, circled the perimeter, swirled in an eddy of elderly ladies dripping in diamonds, and were paddled out the front door.
Leaving behind the high-end hush of carpeted floors, we hit up H&M. Unfortunately, after touching the hems of 3,000 dollar dresses, everything in H&M seemed to be made of paper and cardboard. We looked around, anyway, while a P.A. system worthy of Madison Square Garden hammered our heads with club music.
"Why do they do that?" Deborah yelled to me. At least I think that's what she said. I couldn't hear her, but she was pointing at the speakers.
"To make it seem like something is happening," I yelled back, snapping my fingers and bopping my head. "This is where the action is, baby."
There was only one item in H&M that caught Deborah's eye. A coat worn by a mannequin that was standing on a platform, dead center in the middle of the store. We searched the racks in vain, looking for one she could try on. "Maybe we could ask someone?" I suggested, but neither of us had the patience to bother.
"That's probably the only one," I said. "I'm sure the store makes one nice thing a season, puts it on display, and, if anyone asks about it, they just say, 'Oh, sorry, that's sold out. But perhaps I can interest you in this other cheap raggy piece of shit instead?"
I must admit that despite this firm belief, nearly everything I own is from H&M.
We could still hear the music thumping a block away as we left behind the low-end hustle and headed for the middle of the road: Club Monaco. "They have some nice stuff, sometimes," said Deborah.
Deborah found a few things to try on, but walked out of the dressing room, disappointed.
"Do you like this?" I asked, holding up a jacket I'd found for myself while waiting.
"Yes!" she said, resigned to getting her shopping thrills vicariously. "Get it."
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure I'm suitable for membership in the exclusive Club Monaco ."
"Get it!" she said.
As we stood in line to pay, I picked a sweater off a display table.
"Nice," said Deborah. "Get it."
"You think?"
"Yes, get it."
"Okay."
"Do you want to try it on?"
"No," I said. I knew it would fit.
And when I got home and put it on, it did. I wore it around the house for about ten minutes before getting involved in a messy project. "I'd better take this off," I said.
I changed into a dirty T-shirt and tossed the sweater into my dresser.
I wonder if I will ever wear it again.
