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Janice Cooper of Yarmouth represents District 47 in the Maine House of Representatives.
An article sent to me by my regular provider of funny tidbits, tells the tale of most of us who used to put on “good” clothes to go to work, and now find ourselves merely searching for a T-shirt with a minimum of stains to wear throughout the day. As the article notes, makeup, if you are so inclined, needs only be applied to your parts over the nose. I, for one, don’t even bother with that, even for Zoom calls.
One of my only weaknesses for material things (the other is art) is clothes. Becoming a legislator was all the excuse I needed. Unlike most jobs, the Legislature actually has a dress code. Women may wear slacks, but only with a jacket. One colleague takes this injunction less seriously than most; her uniform is well-worn corduroy slacks and a loose jacket that has seen better days.
But some of us like to look good and so this is all the excuse we need to indulge in the search for the perfect jacket to hide excess weight, slacks that match the above and shoes that do not kill our feet on the unforgiving marble floors of the State House. Some younger members and staff do go the whole nine yards, but they are eclipsed by the female lobbyists, who probably spend much of their income on the most stylish (for Maine) outfits. (Let’s face it: Maine is not a fashion center.)
When first elected, I purchased several pairs of shoes with heels. Not stilettos, but definitely not flats. I thought I found a compromise in stacked heels. But I bought them online, so I did to realize how brutal they would be on the unforgiving marble floors of the State House. I now have half a dozen pairs of shoes that have had only a handful of wearings. I try to give them away but no one wants them.
As for the rest of my wardrobe, I have a stunning (if I do say so) collection of jackets that fill a small room that I turned into a walk-in closet. On the walls hang dozens of necklaces and bracelets. Earrings on the bureau, which I rarely wear. My most recently purchased necklaces are so-called statement necklaces that certainly make a statement. Big. Colorful. Look at me, I think, was the message. They are large and command attention, purchased indulgently in my travels. (Remember travels?) I also have another entire closet full of scarves, which I bought thinking they not only pulled my look together, but hid the wrinkles in my neck. They didn’t.
All of this stuff now sits abandoned, with no one interested in taking them, let alone purchasing them. If I added up their cost, I would be appalled.
I seriously doubt we will ever go back to the office with the same expectation of dressing up. And even if we do, by then, all my dry goods will be seriously out of fashion.
So what to do with all this stuff? Many of the jackets are made of moth-eating wool, so storing them long term in an open closet will be a disaster. Eventually, I will donate them somewhere, if I can’t find a friend willing to take them.
But not yet. I still like to look at them, recall the compliments they engendered, and imagine that weddings, meetings, and trips (if not a job) will return. But for now, they are a constant reminder of a life that no longer exists, not only because my legislative service will end this year, but because life has changed so dramatically and so quickly. This aspect of the changes in my life pales in comparison to the heart-breaking upheaval that the pandemic has brought to other people — lost jobs, lost lives, lost health. I know my sadness over a rack of clothes is silly, but I mourn them nonetheless.