Carhartts at a Christening

CINCINNATI, OHIO


After 38 hours in transit, I finally arrived at my mom's house, one of several of my caches of personal belongings. It's a process that makes my mind swirl, really- the date doesn't change thanks to the international date line, but the hours do. I change my watch each time we land , as the flight attendant announces local time. I pay little attention to the temperature announcement, because no matter the weather, I will spend my time cooped up in the recirculated air of yet another airport. Each time we land, I briefly scan my memory for images from each particular airport, trying to remember where the decent food is, and how far I might need to dash for my next plane. I will need to change money in Sydney to buy dinner, and clear customs in LA. Once I get back to the states, I can recharge the cell phone that's lain dormant these last 5 months, and hope that it still works so that I can call for a ride at my final destination. At one airport, I stopped in a shop to buy an apple and a bag of pretzels and was momentarily baffled at the basket of shamrock cookies on the counter. It took several minutes to work through to the fact that it is the eve of March, and St. Patrick's day is ahead. In 5 days time, I have been in the blustery winds of Antarctica, landed in New Zealand on an 85 degree summer evening, and spent much of the week in a cold drizzly rain, so distracted by an earthquake that I couldn't tell you what day it was, let alone what season. When I finally stepped off a plane for good, my sandaled feet were cold, and the chilly night air made me wish I had a coat with me. Along the drive home, leafless trees and leftover holiday banners reminded me that spring is still a long ways off here in the midwest. I'll figure it out eventually, I supposed. 


I'm not quite sleeping yet (I have no idea what time zone I'm in) and I have to consciously think about what sort of clothing to wear, but at least I am relatively certain that the earth here will sit still, and I've stopped jumping at every loud rumbling noise. By the sixth airplane, I wasn't even clutching the armrests on rough landings. So with that peace of mind, I have turned my attention to things of somewhat lesser importance: what to wear, for example. 


I always imagine that most people return home from a trip, unpack their suitcase, perhaps do a load of laundry, catch up on their mail, and then more or less return to some typical routine. How lovely that would be. 


Tonight, two nights after arriving, I was to join some of my extended family to celebrate my mom's upcoming birthday at a slightly-fancier-than-casual restaurant that ruled out the patched jeans that I have spent the week in. I unpacked my luggage to find roughly a million pairs of gloves and mittens (what? i was in antarctica), a solid wardrobe of down coats/jackets/vests, a few tshirts, and a pair of hiking boots. Somewhere between my work pants and long johns, I found my standby, go everywhere swooshy black skirt. So that's a start. I dig into a closet that years ago I sneakily offered to clean out (sure mom, let me take care of that for you!) and is now crammed full of all the things I can't bear to get rid of (who knows? i MIGHT have a kitchen someday. in which case i will absolutely want Nana's old salt and pepper shaker. And I'm still crossing my fingers for bookshelves someday, in which case I will need my 8 boxes of books to fill them). 


Somewhere on the top shelf of said closet are a few pairs of shoes. I'd already pulled down my cowgirl boots to replace the sandals I'd traveled in, but I'm not sure that they are suitable for a fancy black skirt. I cast aside my rugby cleats, and an old pair of steel-toed boots. Buried under a pair of mukklukks are the strappy sandals from a wedding a few summers ago, but bare toes seem like a bad idea in light of the rain and cold temperatures. Where are those other black dress shoes I have? Must be at my other abode/storage facility in chicago (aka, my sister's house). Let's see....red mary janes? I had those on the ice....where are they now? Hmm. I think I may have mailed them. But to what address? They're probably still sitting in a post office somewhere. Damn. Do I really have no wearable shoes for dinner? I head back upstairs and rummage through the piles now covering the floor of my borrowed room. Aha! Water shoes. I realize the term "water shoes" conjures up images of garrishly colored mesh shoes with rubber gripper feet attached to a very small person wearing a ruffle butt bikini and water wings. But mine, on the other hand, I am convinced can pass as dress shoes. In fact, when I bought them, I wasn't entirely sure what they were designed for. They are black neoprene mary janes that I discovered were designed for water sports only after stumbling upon them on a website, and they will do just fine. 


So now I'm up to a skirt and shoes. Fantastic. I glance at the clock and realize that unless I want dripping wet hair, I had better get in the shower now. In which case I'm going to need some shampoo. The rest of the wardrobe will have to wait. I head out to the store, and somewhere between the shampoo aisle and the travel accessories (since of course I'm already planning my next trip) I find a shirt whose 3/4 length sleeves I object to on principle (as a tall girl who has yet to be amused by sleeves several inches too short). But it's neutral with a classy neckline that might just qualify as dressing up if I replace my ratty jeans with my swooshy black skirt. 


I've now spent more time getting ready for this dinner than I think I have collectively spent getting ready for every major event in my life previous. And it is somewhere in the middle of all of this that it occurs to me how lovely it must be for most people to come home to a closet. With clothes hanging in it. So that when such an occasion arrives, they simply pull out a few items, and a normal pair of shoes, and maybe even a pair of stockings. (Crap. Where are my stockings? Do any of them NOT have runs in them?). I bet most people don't have to remember what city their shoes are in. That must be nice. 


It is shortly after this thought that I realize that tonight's dinner is the first of several semi-formal occasions that I will be attending in the next week, all of which I had planned to miss before travel plans changed. Not least of which is my nephew's christening next weekend. I think wistfully on the last 5 months during which time I woke up 5 days a week and pulled on the same dusty, oil stained carhartt overalls, one of three long sleeve shirts, and a rapidly disintegrating pair of work boots. It took me exactly 7 minutes to get ready in the morning including tooth brushing and sock finding. Today I think I surpassed the 7 minute mark just sifting through my luggage for the skirt. Nevermind the rest of it. I do a quick mental inventory of other dress clothes that I might possibly still own and deem both my cotton sundress and satin bridesmaid dress inappropriate for the occasion. At least I think my shoes are in Chicago where the christening will be. Immediately disheartened by the lack of appropriate clothing inventory (how did I get to be 31 without a single non-summery dress in my possession?), I consider calling my sister to ask about the attire required at her son's christening. Would carhartts be appropriate? Because I've got those.