From: max@athena.mit.edu (Max Meredith Vasilatos)
Subject: Re: Deletions
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Date: Sun, 12 Apr 1992 19:21:08 GMT

gsmith@concour.cs.concordia.ca (Gene Ward Smith) writes:

>I've got quite a hat collection--which one do you want to eat? My
>Alpine hat? My authentic cowboy hat? My beret? My solar-powered
>propeller beanie (no, I'm not making this up?)

[then a thread about shoes, comfortable and otherwise]

Not that knowing how it started changes anything,
but my parents dressed me in ugly ill-fitting clothes
like orange plaid jumpsuits and brown clodhoppers,
cute green coats and maroon velour tops to match my
sister and mother, charming easter church outfits 
that made the newspaper...  until I rebelled.  It 
began slowly, with hats.

Just a couple of caps at first, an army cap and a
baseball cap so I was mistaken for a boy.  But it
rapidly got out of control, until at a hat contest
I wore 12 hats piled on my head.  (Didn't win.  My
fabulous fairy friend showed up in a three-foot wide
construction of Wall Street Journals and string; the
girl in mosquito netting won hands down at Killer.)
The trauma of smushed hat-hair finally stopped that
binge.  I turned to shoes.

Turquoise jellies, thigh-high fur-lined boots, six-
inch platforms, espadrilles, painful dainty patent
leather pumps, rhinestone studded velvet high heels,
elfin ankle-highs, Frye boots, docksiders, penny loafers,
black loafers with tassles, velcro sneakers, hightops,
saddle shoes and sandals, black leather steeltoed boots
with shin guards and a million buckles...  and those are 
only the ones still left after a several-box purge.
Moving to Italy was a mistake, shoe-wise.

Hats and shoes can be gotten cheap (or not).  It was
when I turned to evening gowns and formal ensembles that 
my finances whirled out of control.  Paris and New York 
are sad places of unconsciousness for someone in my 
condition.  Waking dazed, thousands of dollars later, 
I'd stare at my closet and wonder when I'd ever be 
invited to enough balls to warrant the scarlet gown 
that barely covered my chest, or the black one with 
cutouts round the middle, or the pink African one with 
gold threads through the borders.  Having a Parisian 
dressmaker down the street didn't help matters, as lavender 
luncheon dresses and blue satin cocktail dresses marched 
into my closet, followed by leather bustiers and sequined 
see-through tops, multicolored minis and brushed raw silk 
suits.  Still there are six perfect little black frocks, 
all in a row (one did duty in New Orleans, another went
to a banquet in Trier, but six?).  And one doesn't get
rid of one's Greek wedding dress, no matter how badly
stained it is.

After noticing I owned 16 jackets in a climate where 
jackets only work six weeks out of the year, my nerves
were raw.  Hats began to wander back into the picture.
Scarves, and I don't wear scarves.  And hose.

It's been a struggle but I'm recovering.  Some Goodwill 
customers are now ready for the finest dinner parties, or
maybe to work in the combat zone or go on Johnny Carson, 
and my sister is perfectly attired at job interviews.  
Getting a dog reduced the shoe inventory by a lot.  I just 
thank heaven I never started on jewelry.  Today I confront 
a pair of gold lame stretch gloves, a birthday gift.
They scream for something to go with them.

Max
max@athena.mit.edu