When I got home from the Peace Corps, my mom took me shopping for an interview suit. She had called Sandy Carpenter to find out where her daughter Cindy shops, since she is my age, and very stylish.
I don't much like shopping, regardless, but pack on the fact that I was coming off two years in a world opposite of the shiny mall and was having trouble even going to the grocery store, it was, needless to say, a draining experience. Here was my mom, gushing about how nice I looked in the fitted jacket and slacks, how she also wanted to buy me a skirt so that I had a few options, and a couple of nice blouses, and some sensible pumps.
I scowled at the mirror, letting her muse about hem lengths. But I drew a firm line: No pantyhose!
I told her I wasn't ever going to wear any of it. I had other plans for my future, though I didn't know what they were.
My mom still had hope. She was working on fixing me up with that nice young man at the bank. And she insisted I would need an interview suit which sat in my closet, tags still on, for fifteen years until one brave day I got rid of it.