Clinton Kelly Meets Queen Hazel

And so begins another painstaking (and yet somehow still incredibly boring) THREE HOURS of “Kathryn Looks for THE Power Suit”.

It’s gotta be out there…somewhere.

I’ll admit, I’m starting to equate this suit with the Loch Ness Monster: I keep thinking I see the perfect one, but I’m consistently proven wrong. Then I’m left to wonder if I’d ever seen it at all…the mirage of the power suits, if you will.

Not that it’s kept me from looking. I’m nothing if not tenacious.

I’m starting to think that clothes shopping is a lot like giving birth: you know you’ll probably like the end result, but the process is pure torture.

It’s also monotonous…and yet somehow highly amusing to the lady whose job it is to count out my garments and issue the appropriate tag number. She looks like a “Hazel” to me, so for the purpose of relating this event, that’s who she’ll be:

“We’ve got a six-er coming back!” Hazel yells, to no-one in particular (that I can see, anyway). “Room 4, Honey,” she adds, with a dismissive wave of her hand. I like the fact that she calls me “honey” (no-one else does)…but I’m undecided on how I feel about her high-volume announcement of my every wardrobe-change-count.

By my fourth trip back to Hazel, I’ve lost track of my “possibles” pile versus my “I’m not loving this color but I’m out of choices” pile…and I’m worried because Hazel’s already made it clear that “8” is the magic number. And I can see she’s getting clearly annoyed at my fumbling and mumbling as I try to put the “undecided” stuff in the “hold” section of Hazel-land, the “over-the-limit” stuff on yet another predetermined rack (which Hazel explained in considerable detail on my last foray into her kingdom) and somehow wind up with the Magic-8 items in my hand that will allow me access to the privacy of her majesty’s domain.

I’m also gaining a better understanding why:

• Clinton's starting to look a little glassy-eyed on some episodes of the show
• Co-host Stacy should be next in line for Goodwill Ambassador to something for her incredible tact/diplomacy and seemingly endless supply of enthusiasm
• Both Clinton & Stacy deserve Acadamy Awards (or at minimum, some serious counseling) for still being able to feign even the slightest interest in clothes shopping after almost half a dozen seasons of What Not To Wear.

This said after I’ve put in about a thousandth of the time that they have. Of course, I’m not being paid like they are either. I’m sure that somehow eases the pain.

For those of you that don’t remember, Clinton Kelly is my IV.

That’s “inner voice”, people.

Originally, his voice would only pop into my head during moments of fashion confusion, but lately I’ve noticed he’s got something to say on other subjects as well. Evidently, the man has an opinion on just about everything…who knew? It probably has something to do with the timbre of his voice (if I were to intellectually analyze this…which I guess I already am)…it’s got this sweet, lazy-meets-Clooney kinda feel to it. It’s hard to describe…that voice…but you know it when you hear it. I realize they’re my thoughts…but somehow I’m hearing them in his voice. There. That completely (and logically) explains it. Analysis complete.

Anyway.

Where was I??

Ah. Hazel’s territory. Unbeknownst to me, she’s been eyeing the sizes of the items I’ve brought into her domain, as well as the color and style.

“Now you’re in the ballpark Honey,” she says, punctuating this remark with a loud *snap* of her chewing gum.
“Excuse me?” I ask, thinking the less said the better, lest I start to hear Hazel’s voice in my head on future outings.
“What the hell made you think you were a size 10, anyway?” she asks, eyeballing me up and down…openly sizing me up as I clutch my “8 items maximum allowed in dressing room” to my chest.
“Well, I haven’t been shopping in a while,” I mumble…looking down and fighting the urge to stick my toe into the crack in the floor tile like a two-year-old.
Her reaction is somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
It sort of sounds like “SNAHAH!”
“Usually people’s sizes are goin’ the other way, is all I’m sayin’” she says, platinum-blonde head bobbing. “They start off low and it takes them a while till it dawns on them that nothin’ with that number is ever gonna fit,” she adds wisely, as she gently pushes the plastic “8” into my hand and steers me towards Dressing Room Number 4.

I can hear Clinton chuckling in my head…and then the only comment he’s made all day:

“It’s so true. Keep going, Kathy.”

And I do.