The blouse hadn’t been dripped on in the hanging locker and so was free of yellow condensation stains. I’d scored it at a thrift store only the week before, so it hadn’t grown any mold, but it did need to be ironed. The jumper had been a real WalMart find – a form-fitting classic in unidentified fibers, with a real rayon lining. “Shoes,” I murmured to myself.
“Lipstick in a spring color. Foundation. Shampoo.” I bent double and, lifting my knees high enough to strike my chin, made my way through the passageway from the aft cabin to the main saloon carrying my blouse and jumper. I flung them onto a settee berth and crawled back into the passageway to fumble for shoes beside the garbage can under the companionway ladder. “My shoes are all sensible,” I complained. “Oh, here’s a couple of pairs I can use.” I held up a pair of fluorescent Wal-Mart sneakers the size of Volkswagens and some black patent-leather slingbacks. “But the high heels will have to be repaired – they’re coming away from the shoe – see?” I demonstrated. “Duct tape,” John said promptly.
He looked critically at the footwear. “I’m not an expert, but I’d say the high heels would go better with your dress than the sneakers.” “Crazy glue,” I returned. “Don’t
“Now that I have a real office job
in the city with a window overlooking the courtyard and my own computer and 15 minute coffee breaks, I’ll need a professional wardrobe,” I said. “Why?” asked John. “So my co-workers won’t notice I smell like a diesel engine,” I said. “What exactly do you do?” John
asked. “Because I signed an oath of loyalty
to my employer, professional ethics dictate that I not comment further,” I said loftily. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” asked John. “Not really,” I said. “That’s why I need to look professional.” We at Cowichan Bay know about
appearance – it’s what we use to discourage tourists, who think we’re slum-dwellers and possibly dangerous. The man digging into his bilge looking for a dropped wrench does not concern himself with fashion faux pas, and anyone who can afford the kind of 48° NORTH, OCTOBER 2010 PAGE 36
marine mechanic who dresses nattily is getting above himself. The women are perpetually broke because we spend all our money on boat parts, so we are expert thrift-store foragers who do not unduly attach themselves to their wardrobes. For years our clothes have molded in our lockers, and for years we have thrown them out and replaced them. I stood in the aft cabin dressed in
jeans and a sweatshirt, my bare toes digging into a discarded pile of brightly- colored socks. “Hmmm,” I said aloud. “I must look chic and professional by tomorrow.”
“Impossible!” John exclaimed from the main saloon. “Darling,” I said, “the right
clothes, a shower, a little makeup and an evening practicing walking in high heels and the transformation will stun you.”
“It might indeed,” said John. I chose a white blouse and a grey jumper for the next day’s ensemble.
be silly, Darling. I need the sneakers to walk down the dock and climb the ramp. I’ll change into my slingbacks in the car. And by the way – you’ll have to put some roofing tiles on our steps on the dock. I’d remind you that if I slip and fall getting off the boat, skin grows back but pantyhose costs money.” “Epoxy glue is all we’ve got,” said
John. “But I’ll see what I can do.” He took the shoes and began laying down back issues of 48° Norths. “Where’s the iron?” I asked. “It’s in the locker opposite the head
where we’ve stored your ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ videos, miles of yarn and all our life jackets and a bunch of other things.” He looked at me reproachfully. “There’s too much stuff there.” “Nonsense, darling,” I said. I began
piling possessions onto a settee berth. “Mohair!” I exclaimed. “Cashmere! Yak yarn! Cotton blends! So there’s that stitch holder! Extra needles! Patterns for toe-socks and nose- warmers! And here’s my pile of three
Transformation The By Catherine Dook
I stood in the aft cabin dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, “I must look chic and professional by tomorrow.” “Impossible!” John exclaimed.
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