Who are you wearing?

My wardrobe is one of proper nouns, not brand names. No one else knows who I'm wearing, but I hold the designers near and dear.

Most of my clothes are from secondhand shops. I usually don't know who donned the duds before me unless there's a name stitched in the collar for the dry cleaner or a monogram on the cuff. Once I found a love note to Isabel in a breast pocket. Other than that, they're anonymous.  

Some of my favorite pieces were offered (or snatched) from friends' pitch piles before being hauled off to charity shops (where there's a chance I'd have bought them three days later).

The few things I own that aren't secondhand were gifts. I love wrapping myself in something someone picked out just for me. And although some gifts are brand name, I prefer to affectionately call them my Tracey pants and Ruthie scarves.

I love my 'trip clothes'. I'm sure I'll wear my Serbian shoes and Burmese beach skirts far past their expiration dates, but I'd rather have worn them out than thrown them out.

Perhaps most interesting is what I've found in drawers and on hooks when buying houses. After the grown children selling their childhood homes had collected their final memories they told me they'd toss the rest before the closing date. Instead, I offered to take care of what was left and asked if they'd mind seeing me in their mom's old apron one day.  

When I get dressed I don't stop to think about who's going into an outfit. But usually at some point during the day I take an inventory from toe to head and the combinations beat the best Milano runway.

Last weekend I was wearing my friend's deceased husband's athletic socks (brand new because as long as I'd known him, dear Giorgio had never been an athlete), an Aileeny t-shirt (Cuddl Duds, but I feel more cuddled calling it 'an Aileeny'), a wool sweater found in the house on the island (for me it's a sweater, but Italians call it 'maglia di salute' which translates as a t-shirt for your health), the previous owner of the mountain house's denim workshirt (his name is Quinto which means 'fifth' because they used to name their kids with numbers), a green vest from Swiss Betty's donation pile and the blue windbreaker Signora Elda used to wear riding her Vespa in the mountains when she was 84.

Some say that clothes make the man. In my case, I say that other men's clothes make me. I don't want to be Tommy, Ralph or Max. (It was hard to come up with three designers; impossible three designers from the 21st century.) It's more fun being Isabel and Elda in whatever size or shade they chose. Winnie the Pooh says, "A hug is always the right size."