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2003-10-01 - 7:06 a.m.

Dressed To Kill

I’m no fashion plate.

My mother reminded me of that Sunday when she greeted me at her door with a perturbed: “My gawd, Billee Jean, you look like a damned ragamuffin.”

I was there to bring in flowers and summer furniture before a predicted freeze, and I was dressed for the task: wild tuffs of hair escaping my orange ball cap, tee-shirt hanging inches beneath my over-sized sweatshirt, grungy sweatpants and grass stained sneakers. She’s witnessed this garb on several occasions, so maybe the reason she was more sensitive to my wardrobe was because it was Sunday morning and she was all dolled up in her Liz, ready to flutter around town. I reminded her--when she hustled me off her porch and into the house so the neighbors would be spared the sight of a bum hanging around her front door—I was there to run around her yard to lug and tote her summer stuff into storage, and chances were good the neighbors were going to notice the bum hanging around her house.

After all these years, Mom should be used to the way I dress. When I was too young to resist she would deck me out in frilly little dresses and shiny patent leather shoes. Once I was old enough to select my own clothes, the pinafores and Mary Jane’s were stashed in the back of the closet in favor of jeans, sweatshirts and cowboy boots or tennis shoes. Except for school. We had a dress code back then and I had to suffer through eight hours of misery before going home and changing into my hobo clothes. Not much has changed.

At home, I don’t much care what I’ve got on, as long as all that needs covering is at least partially covered. My summer outfit is cutoff sweatpants and a tee shirt. Sans shoes. I have enough cutoff sweatpants and tee shirts to live comfortably a half dozen days before doing laundry. If we’re on the boat I’m in swimsuit, nylon shorts and tank top. I have plenty of dress shorts and blouses to keep from being considered a hopeless vagabond, but I only don those dudes for special occasions. Going out for dinner, a Brew Crew party or maybe a trip to the grocery store.

In winter I live in my flannel jammy pants—several different plaid designs to chose from—and switch out the short-sleeved tee for a long-sleeved tee and add a pair of wool moccasins and holey socks. During the coldest months I’ll pull on a ragged, navy Auburn sweatshirt. Anyone arriving at my house—announced or unannounced—is in for a fashion show the likes of which they would not see in polite society.

In case you’re thinking I go to work in flannel pajamas or hacked off fleece shorts, no, I don’t. That’s not to say I wouldn’t if professional dress codes allowed. Oh yeah, I’d be right here in those warm, cuddly flannel pants. But people frown on that and talk funny about me, so I have assembled a closet of suitable work attire. They may not be in vogue, but at least I’m satisfied with my togs. I like tailored and casual and I like comfort, so that’s what guides my buying.

And any buying I do is usually done in L.L. Bean, J. Crew or Lands End catalogs. I would rather be horsewhipped than shop (ask diva, she can vouch for this). Occasionally, during moments of dementia, I will tag along on a shopping trip. Sometimes I even find a new something to wear. Most times I don’t. But you can damn well bet I can always find some flannel jammy pants. I am in need of a couple of new long-sleeve tees; I might have to break down and make a trip to Wal-Mart.

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