It was my own fault for wearing a brooch.
Because I was in Toronto when Paul died, I didn't have much in the way of clothes to wear at the funeral. I had to settle for a summer skirt with tights and a black turtleneck, an ensemble that was sufficiently respectful to honor the dead, but it also made me appear about twelve years old. In the hopes channeling some kind of sexy librarian image that would counteract the infantile one I was currently sporting, I decided to put on a sparkly pin because, according to the latest issue of "Women who are thinner and prettier than you" magazine, brooches are all the rage this season.
I should've expected the rest.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that whenever anyone who isn't in the least bit stylish makes a halfhearted attempt to do something fashionable, people who are far more chic will get very excited that this means that you will want their further assistance to become fabulous. This usually begins with an excited gasp about your fashionable thing ("oh! what a terrific scarf! your eyebrows are divine! what a great colour on you!"), followed by "but you could also..." and any number of valid but equally terrifying options that if accepted will inevitably result in the unfashionable person looking like an ass: "Tie the scarf around your waist, like this," or "pluck closer in line with your iris" or "blush would really complement that lipstick colour."
Now, this is not unusual behavior for mothers in general, who are fond at picking and prodding at their offspring to make them appear more attractive in case they have to prove something to strangers or other mothers ("My daughter always wears expensive underwear!" "Oh yeah? Well my son wears pants that are hemmed to fall perfectly at his instep!" "Suckers! I implanted by kids with steel rods at birth so that they always stand up straight!"). So long as it doesn't involve spit and a grubby Kleenex, I think that most people have learned to put up with this kind of prodding with a patient disengagement, like a golden retriever whose rawhide has been taken away by a hyper four-year-old. My problem is that my mother just happens to be a Holt Renfrew Fashion Maven who desperately needs her own her own makeover TV show on the Life network (titled "Lou-la-la") where she can make sure the world understands that short boots can and should be worn with skirts. There is no escape from a woman who spends her days selling $800 blazers.
Compounding the problem is my lovely friend Hilary who actually buys Vogue as soon as it hits the newsstands, and watched Sex in the City religiously. There's no escape from her either. Hilary and the Holt Renfrew Fashion Maven get along swimmingly.
At the wake, munching vegetables and keeping my eye on the dwindling pile of smoked salmon, I was accosted by the Holt Renfrew Fashion Maven, who immediately started fussing with the goddamn brooch. "That's lovely," she breathed, sending out her "let's pick at Sarah" pheromones to notify the other women in the room that the molestation was about to begin. "Very nice...but..."
As if beamed from the fashionista mothership, Hilary materialized immediately to my mother's summons, making approving cooing noises and nodding enthusiastically. HRFM had by this point removed the brooch from my chest, and was doing something fussy with the part of the turtleneck covering my lower ribcage. "You just gather it like so," she said, yanking up my sweater and exposing my stomach. "And pin. Isn't that love-ly?!? So very in right now." Hilary cooed, nodded. "That is lovely." My mother-in-law appeared, and HRFM turned to her for additional clobbering power. "Doesn't that look so great right there?" she asked, still tugging at my sweater and poking me sharply to stand still. "Oh yes," said my MIL. "Very chic."
And then came that horrible moment when I was instructed to go look at myself in the mirror and voice my approval at the new, improved, fabulous Sarah that had materialized with the reapplication of the brooch. I glanced in the hall mirror. "Itz' fine," I mumbled, my eyes scanning the room for an unblocked door. "Chic."
"Not that mirror," said MIL. "You can't see anything in that mirror. Go the front hall and get a good look at yourself. I think it's just lovely." Everyone was dripping with italics now.
Defeated, I slunk into the front hall, where a morose-looking twelve-year-old with a stupid pin at her waist greeted me with a scowl. Her navel was showing.
"This is ridiculous," I thought. "I'm a twenty-five year old woman, and my mother is still telling me how to dress. I look like a moron. I'll just put the brooch back where it was."
Big mistake.
When I returned to the dining room, HRFM immediately noticed that I had moved the brooch. "What, you didn't like it there? Fine. You don't have to wear it there, you know. There's so many options this season - they're so versatile. C'mere. I wanna show you something." And she advanced, hands outstretched. Across the room, Hilary cooed approval.