The blogosphere is buzzing this week in response to Robin Givhan's columns as part of presidential candidate profiles in the Washington Post. Inevitably the entries are outraged that anyone would think clothes matter, especially in the realm of something so serious and important as politics. Those of us in the beltway know better, I think. That's the cynical insider in me talking, maybe.
Project Runway is on and I'm doing laundry. This is the Project Runway where Jack leaves early because of an infection. The room erupts in tears as he says, "This was the best experience of my life." The room erupts in cheers as the producers bring back Chris, who was booted last week.
I don't care about clothes, I think. I'm not watching this because I'm gay. I'm not sure why I watch it, actually. Even in the beltway, clothes matter.
Just as I washed and folded my boyfriend's Air Force T-shirt, he called to say that his new job was OK, that I sounded funny, was I sure I was alright, and that he had a lot going on and couldn't talk. "I have to wake up early. I can't sleep in anymore. I know you hate it when I don't call. You get all alpha male."
"No, I don't."
"It's fine. You're sensitive."
"No, I'm not."
Calling's a chore. I know how that can be.
Walking home from the subway one night a couple weeks ago, he in uniform, me in my sloppy office dress, a woman accosted him. Not accosted, I guess, but approached. "Are you in the Marines?"
"No, the Air Force."
"That's what up."
I fumed. "In uniform, I can't say anything," he said, head cocked to the side smiling that smile.
"I can." But I don't.
I'm fuming now, at the shirt, at his refusal to talk, at my insecurity. No surprise there. Introspection is necessarily repetitive. No man changes his stripes so radically he can't recognize himself in the mirror.
My room smells like fabric softener, as he said it always does last weekend. "I think of you whenever I'm doing laundry." There's comfort in that declaration.
Even in the beltway, clothes matter.