Sunday, August 16, 2009

A rant: Don't tell me what day these pants are for

I just stopped what I was doing to come compose this rant, because I just realized something that affects me more than it should, and I'm wondering if it's just me.

I was just moments ago flipping through a clothing catalogue my mother had left on my kitchen table, after getting home from a nice dinner out with a friend. I was enjoying the fact that I had nothing to do so why not stop and flip through this new addition to my reading stack. I was also feeling pretty impressed with myself that somehow the chocolate craving I'd been experiencing my whole 20-minute ride home had been met -- and satisfied, I might add -- instead with the blueberries I saw in my fridge. (Granted, this is the first sweet thing that passed my eyes on my return; had it been the cookies, things would've turned out a lot differently. And that's not to say they still won't ... like I said, I had to drop what I was doing to come write this.)

Anyway, I was feeling quite good and content as I flipped through this catalogue until I saw the name of their corduroy pants: Saturday Corduroy Pants.

This irritated me immediately. Then, as I sat there with my blueberry-eating peace suddenly disrupted by irritation, I wondered, "Why am I so annoyed?"

I thought for a second, then realized exactly why I was annoyed. My inner dialogue went a little something like this, "Don't tell me when I should where these pants, Mr. (or Ms.) So-and-So Catalogue. Maybe I think these pants are good enough for work. Maybe I'd rather wear my ripped jeans on Saturday. Or maybe even my sweatpants! Don't try and tell me that I should be getting dressed in your brightly colored and oh-so-chic corduroys on a Saturday."

And then, "Oh, what, so my life is so lame because these so-called 'Saturday Corduroys' would do just fine on a weekday in my office? My job isn't fancy enough to confine corduroys to the weekend? And my weekends are so uncool and/or uneventful that nothing more than my 6-year-old jeans is necessary?"

So, I think I just got into a legit fight with the catalogue. In my head. But then I realized, "Wait, that fight was with my head."

So I learned two things just now. A) I'm a sucker for marketing, obviously (though their clever naming technique didn't necessarily make me want the special "Saturday Corduroys," it did make me stop and think about my whole life and how I feel about it based on my wardrobe. Nuts.)

And B) I really need to stop beating myself up so much. If a catchy named pair of pants can throw me out of my blissful state into a self-assessing argument with myself, something's gotta give.

But in the meantime, I really hate when clothing catalogues name their clothes after the days of the week. Really, I can figure that out myself, thank you ... (And yes, I was just talking to an inanimate object, I think. I didn't say I was cured, just that I recognize I need one. Knowing is half the battle. Right?)

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