I've been having a violent internal battle about synthetic fabrics. I know they're cheap and unfashionable, and I know they supposedly don't let your skin breathe. Every now and then I watch "What Not to Wear" and hear Stacy and Clinton rail against evil synthetics—particularly polyester.
It's likely that my daily dose of WNTW this summer has distorted reality for me forever. I cannot deny the tearing guilt I feel over the sins I now confess.
My wardrobe consists exclusively of polyester, nylon, and cotton-poly blends, with the occasional addition of spandex. I own one item of wool clothing, and it's a pea-coat that is currently stored with my other winter clothing. Most (possibly all) of the pure natural-fiber cloth in my wardrobe resides in the lining of my underwear.
In spite of my deep remorse over this gross overuse of synthetic fabrics, a part of me insists on defending my actions and my wardrobe.
What is really wrong with polyester? It's relatively wrinkle resistant, washable, inexpensive, and easy to find and wear. I don't feel like my skin is suffocating in it, so what's the problem? I also happen to be spending lots of money on my PhT (Putting hubby Through) at the moment, and definitely can't afford to buy too many expensive items. Considering that my current wardrobe would be considered "low class" by scorners of synthetic apparel, it seems like mixing in quality items one by one would simply serve to emphasize the cheapitude of my current clothing selections.
My TV-inspired-guilt-ridden half has been trying to buy a pair of cute wool pants from Express for the past couple of months, but to no avail. Either I have no time or money, or the store has no pants big enough to cover my increasingly round Hispanic booty (and yes, I'm even prouder of my behind than I am of my Spanish hair).
Now that I'm on a weight-loss regimen, I'm even more hesitant to purchase new clothing. I've already lost almost a full pants size, but I'm hesitant to make purchases because I can't be sure how far my hips will really shrink, where my waist will end up, and how long I can hold it all together. I'm fully ready to take my entire wardrobe to a tailor for a better fit, but I just can't bring myself to do it when I'm moving steadily toward the "off the rack" body I used to have—well, off the rack except for the short legs.
All of this talk about weight loss and the painful situation of my wardrobe has gotten me depressed. I'm going to go home and hide in my closet with my synthetic security blankets.