I will be the first to admit that I was a spoiled little girl, having parents who worked in the fashion industry. They bought my outfits from exclusive shops selling only the finest imported Italian clothing and shoes. This would be every girl's dream, but not mine. You see, I was a Tomboy. I would rather play in mud than play dress-up. I would change into my runners when I arrived to school. And thank goodness for track and field training days when I could wear my "track pants".
By high school my parents had given up. To their relief, and mine, I had to wear a uniform: no coordinating necessary.
When I started working in fitness, my indifference to fashion increased. If I could not exercise in it, then it did not deserve any prime closet real estate. I did not understand the pleasure others would find when shopping for clothes and accessories. I mean, how many shoes does a woman really need? You wonder where I would get my non-fitness clothing? I own clothes over 15 years old. Most new pieces I acquire through hand-me-downs and I am not ashamed to admit it. After all, recycling clothes is a wonderful way to conserve and save the environment.
My lackadaisical fashion life did not alarm me until I hired a publicist who has plans on booking me for readings and media interviews. Did that mean I had to go shopping? Would my current wardrobe suffice? I would worry about that when the time came. Until then, I was going to enjoy the weekend in Montreal with my boyfriend (Mike Galic, who is the poet for Tillsonbugger Adventures).
Mike thought he would take advantage and get a new pair of boots while in the fashion capital of Canada. Ironically, I do not mind shopping for others. All was going well, until the attention was put on me. When we entered Féline in Old Montreal, the stylist's x-ray vision must have noticed my lack of style under my winter coat.
Narine was her name. She asked me in her beautiful Quebecois accent, "Would you like to see something?"
Mike immediately walked over. Not to protect me, but to push me into trying on new clothes. I started to get anxiety, "Oh, no, thank you! I don't need anything. We're just here for men's shoes."
Her expression suggested otherwise, but she was too polite to say, "Girl! You need help!" Instead, she said, "Just give me ten minutes and I will give you three different looks. You don't have to buy anything. I just want to show you your potential."
Mike, the traitor, agreed with Narine. Next thing I knew, I was in the changeroom bombarded with skinny jeans, skirts, sweaters, blouses...Narine tied belts around my waist and slipped caps on my head. One minute I was in my winter coat and the next I was in the sexiest street wear I had ever seen or worn. And she was true to her word; ten minutes was all she needed to prove her point.
I could not foresee my lack of shopping genes metamorphosing into that of a shopaholic, but the Tomboy in me had grown up in that instance. At the very least, I could compromise and buy new clothes for the appropriate occasion, whether it be for book signings or speaking engagements. I mean, it cannot hurt to visit Narine again in Old Montreal and experience another Pretty Woman moment.