This story was inspired by an old
nursery rhyme that you all may know ...
There was an old woman who lived in a
shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
She
gave them some broth without any bread;
She whipp'd all their
bums, and sent them to bed.
from J. Ritson,
Gammer Gurton's Garland,
or The Nursery Parnassus: a
choice collection of pretty songs
and verses for the amusement of
all little good children who
can neither read nor run
(1794, rpt., Glasgow,
1866), p. 27.
(Or Mother Goose.
Whichever.)
Once upon a time, in a backward little village, far, far away from anywhere of any consequence, there was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Classic Stiletto-Heeled Black Pump. (We'll just call her Old Woman because it's much easier. ) She had so many pets, she didn't know what to do, but that's another story for another time.
One morning, Old Woman stirred her old
bones early to go to market and resume her
unending quest for the most magical and elusive of wardrobe
pieces; the Perfect Crisp White Shirt. Late that afternoon, as Old
Woman flipped wearily through the Women's Medium Long Sleeved Shirts
rack at Ye Olde Discount Department Store, she was startled when ...
POP! ... the great designer Carolina Herrera suddenly appeared at her
side, as if out of nowhere!
"Old Woman," the great
designer began. "I know of your sincere desire to find the
fabled Unicorn of Fashion, the Perfect Crisp White Shirt, " she
continued, in perfectly elegant, Spanish-accented English. "Why, Old Woman, do your eyes bug
out so? You should see a doctor about that. And you may close your
mouth, now. It looks very stupid."
"I'm sorry ... who are you?
You look like Carolina Herrera, but you can't be," Old Woman
stammered.
"That was fast. You're smarter
than you look," the apparition murmured to her self. "Okay,
so you found me out. I'm just a figment of your imagination. An
illusion. The psychological manifestation of your anxiety caused by
your foolish fixation on one, impossibly perfect item of clothing,"
she continued, her exotic accent turning abruptly into a Midwestern
version of American English. "But illusory help is better than
no help at all. And you need help, you know? Besides, you can't
afford the real Carolina Herrera. "
"Hey ..." Old Woman began
defensively.
"Here's the deal," the
apparition interrupted sharply. "Rather than just granting your
wish, all poof-and-there-it-is, I'm advising you to grab the very
next white shirt that you come upon in this rack, and actually go and
try it on. You'll be glad you did, I promise. But remember this;
unicorns come in dark neutrals as well," she said, in a
more kindly tone.
Then, as abruptly as she arrived ...
Pop! ... the spitting image of Carolina Herrera disappeared. Only
then did Old Woman notice other women near her giving her some
seriously suspicious side-eye and pulling their children closer.
Old Woman decided, for once in her
life, to do precisely what she'd been advised and sure enough, she
soon came upon a lovely, tailored white shirt by Jones New York. The
moment she touched it, the shirt whispered to her, " I am the
shirt you desire. I am the White Unicorn of tailored shirts. Take
me home with you. And while you're at it, take my sister ... the
shirt right behind me on this rack. She is the fabled Black Unicorn,
and just as rare and magical."
"Time to get my blood sugar
checked," Old Woman decided as she carried both shirts to the
fitting room. "Or maybe just skip that second glass of wine with
lunch ..."
As all good stories do, Dear Reader,
this one has a happy ending. Old Woman ended her quest with more
than she dreamed of, and took both shirts home at significantly less
than suggested retail price. She hung them in her closet, and the
shirts chatted happily to one another about their new home and how
inferior the rest of the clothes were, giggling about their escape
from the Final Clearance rack. They chattered on, non-stop. Into the wee hours of the
morning. And because they kept the Old Woman awake with their
merriment, she got up from her bed, threw both shirts into the
washing machine and laundered them in cold water with no chlorine
bleach as the instructions advised, in Woolite and on the longest
possible wash setting. In the morning she dried them thoroughly on
the Permanent Press cycle and hung them back in the closet.
But now, they were silent and never,
ever spoke to anyone again, because, as everyone knows, washing a new shirt takes all the magic out of it as well as the factory sizing.
But Old Woman was pretty sure she'd wear them Happily Ever After
anyway.
 |
| Carolina Herrera (the real one) in her signature white shirt  Me (AKA Old Woman) having my own budget-Carolina Herrera moment in Jones New York. Still ... not bad.  Of course, she does it in black, as well.  And so does Jones New York! So happy ..... |
