Ode to Talbots

I used to dread seeing a big, red box from my grandmother beneath the Christmas tree. Grandma hated sending money or gift certificates, but she also hated shopping at the stores I liked. Grandma subscribed wholeheartedly to the “it’s better to give than to receive” philosophy. She loved giving gifts, but only gifts that she herself would want. My mother, bless her heart, tried every year to convince Grandma to take a gander at Urban Outfitters or Anthropologie, but to no avail. Grandma’s favorite store was Talbots. The last present she gave me was a red boiled wool jacket from there. Because I’m a terrible person, I returned it without her ever knowing (I’m banking on a lack of Internet in the afterlife to save me from Grandma finding out posthumously). I got a hefty amount of store credit to a place I was sure I would never find anything for me.

As I began packing for Benin, I realized that my wardrobe was heavy on moth-eaten sweaters, skinny jeans, and holey t-shirts. Somehow none of those things seemed right for business casual in Benin, so I went shopping. My wonderful and amazing Aunt Joan came into Seattle for the day, and we hit the mall for modest, practical clothing. This could be Talbots’ tag line – I finally needed them! Despite my embarrassment, we managed to find some lovely things, which is exactly how my grandmother would have described them. In fact, she would have been so happy to go with me to buy these lovely things. I sent a silent prayer up to her as I handed over my store credit to the cashier.

I haven’t yet described laundry here, but it is an intense process, a physical workout that leaves me drenched in sweat, with blistered hands and sore muscles. It is a tripartite system – everything gets soaped and scrubbed three times, paying extra attention to collars, crotches, and armpits. [Tripartite is the wrong word I think…Someone who knows about these things come up with a better adjective please]. Granted, now that I’m on my own there is no one to enforce laundry standards, and I could just slop my shirts around in the bucket and call it a day, much like I hand wash delicates in the States. But I am here to integrate into the culture, dammit, and I will kill myself to do laundry like the Beninese if that’s what it takes. Plus, if Estelle in Porto Novo (who taught me to do laundry) found out I was skimping she would be horrified. Compounding the problem of rigorous washing, the detergent apparently errs on the side of caution and tries to remove everything, including all color, from your clothing.

So, my clothes have been subjected to this intense and damaging process for three months thus far. And all my adorable hipster T-shirts and skirts are desperately faded and worn (which is a look I would normally go for, but Beninese are pretty clothing conscious and it just doesn’t do). But my three Talbots T-shirts are in incredible shape – holding up in color and construction. And I finally realized that Grandma wasn’t just stubbornly buying me what she wanted me to wear (though that was part of it) but also that she really wanted me to have a wardrobe of good things that lasted. Though she wasn’t thrilled about the Peace Corps idea (she had long harbored hopes that I would join the Foreign Service and become the Cultural Attaché to Finland) I know she would be glad that I am at least well equipped. Thanks, Grandma.