Dressed for Real Life

Last Friday, I stood up from my computer and stretched.

It was an ordinary movement. The kind you do without thinking after sitting too long. I had woken up with a bit of tightness in my shoulder, nothing dramatic. I assumed I had slept awkwardly and that a stretch would sort it out.

Instead, everything in my back seized.

The pain was so immediate and so strange that I briefly became convinced I had cracked a rib. This is not a rational first thought, I realize. But my doctor has recently informed me that my bones are edging toward brittle, so apparently my imagination now likes to work with source material.

I called my husband for help. He got me to the store, where thankfully Shefali was able to carry the live show while I contributed from somewhere in the background, trying to appear normal and only wincing privately.

The next day, we had tickets to see the musical Chicago in Toronto.

Under better circumstances, this would have been straightforward and fun. What exciting outfit would I wear to the theatre [insert British accent]? Instead, it became a significant reminder of what clothing should actually be for.

There was no possibility of wrestling myself into anything fitted. No zippers. No structured tailoring. No garments requiring two functioning arms and a positive attitude.

What I needed was clothing that asked very little of me.

I wore Casbah Pants, which I could pull on with one hand, and more importantly, pull down with one hand (anticipating future bathroom visits).

A bra was out of the question entirely. That problem required improvisation, adhesive technology, and lowered standards.

On top, I wore a loose tank by Blue Sky, soft and stretchy enough that I could pull it over my outstretched arm.

And the pièce de résistance? A gorgeous silk vest worn as a top that made me look glamorous despite the chaos happening underneath that flowy silk.

By the time we left, I really was dressed for an evening out.

No one would have guessed I was functioning like a woman twice my age. (Do the math, that’s OLD!)

And I found myself feeling grateful.

Because if my closet were still full of the clothes I once thought I was supposed to wear, I do not think I could have gone at all.

The younger version of me admired plenty of things that were beautiful but uncooperative. Clothes with tiny fastenings, narrow tolerances, hard edges, and the implicit expectation that the body inside them would behave consistently.

That body has moved on.

Bodies do that. They change gradually, then suddenly. They ask for different things with very little notice.

Later that evening, I sat in the theatre watching those astonishing young dancers fling themselves across the stage with impossible ease. Arms everywhere. Legs everywhere. Precision, energy, complete physical confidence. The contrast between their effortless movement and my own careful, side-angled existence was almost comical.

But I did not feel envy.

Only the quiet certainty that one day, many years from now, some of them will understand exactly what I understood that night.

That there is a special kind of luxury in being able to get dressed without struggle.

That clothing can be more than decorative.

That sometimes the most beautiful thing in your wardrobe is the piece that lets you keep participating in your own life when everything hurts.

I have spent years around clothing through sariKNOTsari, thinking about colour and shape and fabric and expression. All of that still matters to me.

But increasingly, I think good clothes earn their place another way.

They do not punish you for changing.

They do not require you to be younger, smaller, stronger, or pain-free than you are.

They meet you where you are, and they help you go anyway.

Sadly, I think I will increasingly need clothing that can cater to my changing body. Happily, that clothing can be divinely exquisite pure silk from sariKNOTsari!