Commerce No. 2

All good trophy wives are consummate label snobs. As I am an awesome trophy wife, I also have the corresponding uncontrollable addiction to overpriced clothing. Unfortunately (or otherwise), I am also the Budget Enforcer of the family, which means I am keenly aware of the state of our (usually) nonexistent clothes budget. These two facts are not compatible and if I were a PC or a man my brain would now explode. (Thankfully, my Mac and female-ness are capable of overcoming these contradictions so this post shall continue.)

My particular Achilles Heel is Ralph Lauren. This is due to two, scientifically-verified facts:

1. Ralph – we are totally on a first name basis – is the ultimate connoisseur of Prep. As I am from New England (aka the world’s largest producer of preppiness and trophy wives), I am genetically drawn to anything containing primary colors, sail boats, and/or stripes. This is why, much to Mama V.’s chagrin, I am always able to justify the purchase of another white and navy striped shirt.

2. Ralph makes awesome rugby shirts. And I am addicted to rugby shirts. Canterbury’s great if you’re playing the game. (Or Barbarian if you’re a cheap American.) Lansdowne’s cool if you want to go for the hooligan look. But Ralph… Only Ralph could make a shirt with rubber buttons and an undeniable kinship to a pack of Lifesavers classy enough for everyday wear.

Thankfully, TJ Maxx doubles as a ‘Ralph Dump,’ so sometimes I am able to pull off a major find without making Bert work overtime. Cue earlier this week:

I was cruising the men’s sale rack, looking for a new Easter shirt for Bert. (This is also something that trophy wives do. They buy their husbands uncomfortably pastel shirts for Easter.) I found him a nice purply grey Calvin Klein button-down, but in the process, I also came across a FABulous orange and brown, red-tagged, Ralph rugby shirt. (And as even my well-trained, five-year old niece knows, if it’s red-tagged, it might as well be free!)

It was a men’s medium – usually way too large for moi – but it was also “vintage slim fit” – which everyone knows is couture for “a lot smaller than you think” – so I gave it a shot. And it was awesome. It had everything I look for in a rugby shirt: comfort, length, the ability to stop traffic with its obnoxious striping. It even threw in a skull and crossbones on the cuff for kicks. Perfect. Ralph and Calvin both came home with me that day. (Bert’s reaction? “Don’t you already have a shirt like that?” Looks like Mama V.’s got a bug in SOMEbody’s ear…)

Now here’s the rub. I wore my new shirt the next day when I went back to TJ’s to get a different size for Bert. (I am still honing my trophy wife ability to intuitively ALWAYS know my husband’s clothing size, regardless of item, brand, or star alignment.) As I walked in, a group of four hip-hop-cool dudes was walking out. One of them looked at me and said, “That girl’s wearing my shirt! And it looks the same on her as it does on me!”

Was he saying I looked like a dude? Or was he saying it was awesome that we had both attained the same level of expensive, street-smart cool? I had (and still have) no idea. So I gave him a smile and a shrug, took it as a compliment, and retreated to the relative safety of the shoe department.

But now I know why most trophy wives probably stick to the women's section. (In my defense, I do have a women’s Ralph rugby shirt. It’s navy and white. Mama V. bought it for me. Now THERE'S a contradiction.) If you’re going to wear dude’s clothes, there’s always that chance you’ll get called out. Which I did. In less than 8 hours of wear-time. I’ll take it as a consequence of quirky taste. You can’t fight fashion.