Tussy Mussy
As a child, my favorite outfit consisted of a pair of white sweatpants, with elastic in the waistband and at the ankles, and a white sweatshirt onto which my grandma had ironed the image of a raggedy bunny doll and then she’d outlined the bunny in gold glitter fabric paint; I suppose so it would look like something a little girl would wear or for the more practical reason of securing the edges of the iron-on. I wore the ensemble with a pair of white white Keds. I must’ve worn that outfit two or three times a week. I probably would have work it every day if my mother didn’t find it necessary to bleach and line dry all three articles at least once a week. I guess I wore it all the time because that bunny doll looked so nice and friendly and I so desperately wanted her to exist in a three-dimensional form. She wore a simple blue dress and an apron the color of the reddish part of peaches just before they’re ripe. And in the apron pocket, she had a bunch of wildflowers, blue cornflowers, dandelions, and some that must’ve been made up because I’ve never seen real flowers that look that way. I used to think, and sometimes I still do, that me and that bunny could’ve been good friends if she were real, and not just an iron-on applique my grandma bought on sale at the craft store. I think that’s what fashion should really be about: the wish that clothes possessed something more than the ability to creatively cover our nakedness.
Note: This is from a longer work-in-progress called “Tussy Mussy.” It’s my first story written from a female perspective. This female is a middle-aged, slightly obese, married woman from Macon, Georgia.
