It was cream silk, with a gathered waistband. It was daringly off the shoulder and although the hemline fell just below the knee, I used to hitch it up under a belt and wear it short too. I sometimes let it fall off one shoulder, sometimes both..either way I loved the feeling of the cream coloured silk on my skin. I loved the way it fitted and moulded around my body, the way it showed off my skin tones and shape of my hips.I felt glamourous, feminine and grown up. I wore it with high heels, and with flat sandles, I wore it barefoot. I wore it in every season, with jackets and without, to dine in and to play in, and to classes. I think I slept in it on a few occasions. I bought it with my first pay-cheque when i was 17 as a first year student nurse, and and I wore it for almost 10 years. Long after I had given birth, breastfed and burped three children I discovered I loved that dress even more with baby puke on the shoulders.
I bought that dress the same year I bought my bib overalls, those I wore with white t-shirts and white sneakers..never with anything else Im not sure why. I rolled up the legs when it warm, and left them down when it was cold. Those dungarees wore straight through the knees and the buttons came off the sides, and I kept them hanging on the end of my bed for ever, waiting for the day i would find time to mend them and sew the buttons back.
But I never did.
My hair was always short in those early student days, I drove an old blue 1200 Datsun with mismatched hubcaps, into Johannesburg to college all the way from the East Rand. A commute of about 30mins in dense traffic, music blaring. I loved the sense of bohemian freedom, and the sense of responsibilty of my studies never weighed too heavily on my shoulders. I was doing what I loved, and the rest would take care of itself.
Those were the days of late nights and little sleep, nights spent listening to live renditions of the Mama's and Papa's with friends in the then Ambassador Hotel in the middle of Hillbrow, the hub of Johannesburg's nightlife.
They were the years of Rag queens and all night float making, the grand Rand Show and weekends spent travelling back to Swaziland to visit the folks. The years of gathering stuff from flea markets and acquiring my eclectic taste in furniture and fabric.
My years of silk and denim.
Of sitting through the Rocky Horror Picture Show four times in four days, of LM radio and the crazy crazy voice of John Berks. Those were the years spent pouring over anatomy and physiology books late into the night before exams, and taking patients home with me in my head after each shift at work,it was about the tears shed for the homeless man who had lice and bedsores because he had lain in the gutter for three days before being admitted to hospital, of becoming personally involved with a child who had been purposefully burned with a cigarette butt by her own mother and then testifying in court.It took me years to learn distance and objectivity. Im still not good at it.
Those were the years when I hadnt yet learned that every actionhas a reaction, even though some actions have a really remarkably long time between their execution and their come-uppance.
The years before personal pain and true loss. It took years for me to realize that I had gained more, learned more, retained more in those years than I would ever have believed possible.
My silk years edged with denim....
