Boys vs. Girls: The Wardrobe Edition

Zach is a kid—a male, mainly—after my own heart. Were it up to him, he'd never go clothes shopping, even if it meant wearing the same old garments until they were down to their last few threads and a sickly grayish-tan from being washed a million times. Problem is, he's still growing, rapidly, so they're often all that and breath-stealing tight to boot. And because of this, he occasionally needs to get new clothing.

Still, when the time comes, he shops the way I do: stake out a store, hit the racks and shelves in quick succession, grab whatever looks remotely appealing, try them on, dart for the register, pay, and then go. Mission accomplished, and who cares if you're not the end-all be-all of fashion plates? You've got clothes, and you're good to go.

If only it were so easy with Zoë. And if only pigs could sprout wings and fly.

When Zoë needs clothes—or even when she doesn't, since she often tires of what's in her drawers and decides she has "nothing to wear"—shopping for her is a job best reserved for someone with the fortune of a Rockefeller, the patience of a monk, and the fashion sense of Stacy London or Clinton Kelly. Unfortunately, I'm none of the above. And since Kelly often promises to go shopping with Zoë but rarely follows through for lack of time, patience, energy, or a combination of the three, the duty typically falls on my shoulders. And to put it simply, I'm not worthy.

Were we still living in the Bay Area, the task would be difficult enough. But it'd be like panning for gold: visit a million stores, and you're bound to strike it rich now and then. But we live in Redding. And I can count the number of local stores where we effectively can shop for Zoë on...oh, about one hand. Add in that she's built athletically—not plump, not fat, but certainly not stick-thin, either—and the difficulty of the endeavor is complicated exponentially. Because, in case you've not shopped girls' clothes recently, everything is low-rise, slim-cut, and meant to fit the 21st-century version of Twiggy.

For a time, I dragged Zoë around, forcing her to try things on. This strategy was far from perfect for a variety of reasons:

• Too often, Zoë would, much like her mother, claim nothing fit right


• Too often, what Zoë liked most did not, by my estimation, fit


• Too often, what Zoë liked most was what I could not or did not want to afford


• And too often, what we thought fit perfectly at the store oddly did not fit at home

Fortunately, there was Plan B, which involved me shopping alone and throwing everything that a) I though Zoë might like and b) I was willing to buy into a cart. This involved buying things in various sizes, since, as the parent of any girl knows, no two brands cut identical sizes the same. The fatal flaw in this setup was that after buying several times over what I actually needed to clothe my daughter, I'd end up with many, many items needing to be returned—a monstrous and somewhat embarrassing job. And far too often, it never got done, resulting in boxes of even more hand-me-downs (and hope-they-fits) for Zienna.

Lately, I've resorted to Plan C: avoidance. And as a result, poor Zoë has ended up with an abundance of out-of-season, ill-fitting, threadbare clothes. Were she not a clothes horse, this might not be a problem. But since she is, it's been a disaster.

Given my struggles to clothe my daughter, is it any wonder I so value my son's flexibility? And perhaps the greatest beauty of his situation is that even as he begins to pay attention to his attire—fueled in part by his growing awareness of the opposite sex—he's still as easy as ever to shop with and for. That fact was proven to the Nth degree yesterday when we needed, with less than an hour on our hands, to buy clothes for his school's "Dress For Business" day. We hit one store, and in less than an hour, including trying things on and shopping clearance racks, we had him in and out the door. Witness the photo for evidence of what he chose to wear—and couldn't stop raving about.

Compare that to several hundred dollars' worth of clothes I bought last week for Zoë's summer wardrobe, and there's really nothing to talk about. What she liked didn't fit, and what we liked, she didn't. The majority of it is bagged up, ready to be returned, hopefully.

I'm doing my best not to take sides. But in this particular battle, it's clearly Boys-1, Girls-0. Even if my boy's happy to be a "wear what's there" slob like me.