I am packing up to go home. I got teased a little here that I had brought no "camp clothes." I'm starting to know what that means. When you pack for camp, you don't bring anything that might bother you if it got stained, torn, faded or lost. So, if it's already on it's way to being in one or a combination of those conditions, all the better. Comfort is the supreme goal (unless you're a teenage girl hoping to be admired by a teenage boy), and modesty is the standard.
While packing, I noticed a familiar tag inside one of my blouses. I've owned other items from this relatively well-known, reasonably priced manufacturer: Sag Harbor.
Is it only me, or does it bother you a bit that there's a women's clothing line called "Sag Harbor?" I mean really! I harbor many sags, but it just seems to be a poor marketing strategy to rub it in!
I should probably Google it to put my mind at rest. Maybe it's a super classy seaside resort place like Cape Cod or something, and I should be familiar with it's exotic location and upscale reputation and feel ritzy when I wear that label. Until such a mental association takes hold, it now just seems like a collection for women of a certain age who harbor sags. But who knows? Maybe that's the demographic the company is aiming for and they've hit their target audience on the nose, or the sag, as it were.
You don't have to go farther than the droop beneath my eyes, or the softening jowls beside my chin--oh, and then there's that chin, itself, with its flappy little companion lolling below it like a skin-toned hammock (by tone, I mean hue, not firmness). We'll stop this depressing review right here. Most of the rest of the sags can be camouflaged with cleverly designed clothing.
But the final blow, the ultimate insult, the coup de grace, is having to wear the label (hidden though it is) at the nape of my neck marking me like a tattoo--as in, I don't just wear sag harbor--I am sag harbor! I really do like that blouse, though. I may just cut out the label.
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