essay

The Overall Effect

Destiny often hangs on the slimmest thread, or sometimes the sturdiest. Like the threads I wore on my one and only date with the hunk of all hunks, Will White.

 Will was my first college heartthrob—a Georgia prep (he had a cameo appearance in that early ’80s classic, The Preppy Handbook) with brown hair, blue eyes and a delicious caramel tan. Two years my senior, he played on the tennis team and hit overhead slams with my heart, though I doubt he even knew I existed. He was my infatuation from afar, a silly crush of crushing proportions, or at least crushing to my fi rst semester GPA. Instead of studying, I’d scour the library stacks for him, trying to land a carrel in close proximity. I once spotted him across the Quad and skipped class just to follow at a safe, salivating distance.

 After encouragement and double-dares from my friends, I mustered the nerve to invite Will to a “Stranger Dance.” It was my one chance to seduce him, volley back that overhead slam and seal what I so clearly envisioned as our fairytale future. And what did I wear to swoon and sway cute Will from the grip of his hometown girlfriend? Bib overalls and my hair in pigtails. I’ve still got the picture to prove it. And I wish I still had the overalls.

 They fit perfectly with the party’s bluegrass theme, but the totally unflattering, boxy overalls fit horribly in every other sense. They were as far from sexy as a get-up could possibly be. No cleavage busting out of the bib, no curvy rear snug in a tight seat—I looked more like Jethro Clampett going to town than Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke. If I projected a subliminal message, it was “let’s mow the hay” rather than let’s roll in it. But the one thing I loved more than the fantasy of happily-everafter with Will White was my authentic, honest-to-goodness railroad striped overalls, the ones I bought off the dusty shelf of an honest-to-goodness general store deep in the North Carolina hills. I think I paid less than $15.

 That purchase remains one of my most satisfying clothing buys ever. Needless to say, I’m not a fashion hound; I’ve never plunked down big bucks for designer labels or high-priced heels, more out of lack of confidence than moral fortitude. I may as well be lost in a foreign country when browsing in the Gucci section of Saks; if I can’t pronounce Manolo Blahnik, how can I feel comfortable wearing a pair? But I can pronounce “Round House,” and throughout the seven or eight years I had my classic Round House overalls, a brand that no-nonsense ladies in Shawnee, Oklahoma, have been stitching since 1903, I felt totally at ease in their no-frills comfort.

­­ I discovered them the summer I led bike tours at an adventure camp. We happened upon the Murphy General Store at a crossroads in the green folds of the Blue Ridge Mountains and stopped to rest and refuel. While my sugar-deprived cyclists sat on the porch downing grape Nehis, Moon Pies and Horehound candy sticks, I checked out the merchandise—stiff blue work shirts, John Deere caps, rigid denim jeans and overalls. Apparently, local fashion trends had not changed much in a quarter of a century, maybe longer. The nitty-gritty goods reeked of Hard Work, Rugged, Real, Earthy—and that’s exactly what I wanted to be. A down-and-dirty girl who could at least dress the agrarian part even if I’d never touched a plow.

 When I was a young teen, my well-dressed mother managed a high-end boutique for the discriminating ladies of our town. I’d drop by after school to check out the latest Diane von Furstenberg wraps, the classy suits and glitzy gowns. “Here, Steph, these just came in, try this on,” Mom would say, then tell me how great I looked. And while my wardrobe benefited from her good taste and store discount, those lovely clothes always felt like they were intended for someone else, for the affluent women my mom often had to pander to, and not for me. It was as if I had an account at a reverse consignment shop. My unpretentious overalls (even if they were pretentiously unpretentious) were another style realm altogether. Wearing them, I was neither fashionista nor farmer, but I was grounded, confident.

 During camp summers, the overalls were perfect for chilly mountain nights and the occasional outing to the local Fiddlers’ Convention. Back on campus they were the ultimate forgiving fashion, helping conceal both my Freshman 15 and my fl at chest. They were cozy late night study duds and don’t-have-to-think-about-it morning hangover attire. Though it pains me now to admit it, I wore them over tube tops when it was hot and over frilly tuxedo shirts for more formal affairs. I must have fancied myself as Rosie-the-Fashion-Riveter.

 For all their sturdy splendor, my overalls failed to help me woo Will White. Mutual friends now report that he lives on a beautiful Georgia estate, happily married to his hometown sweetheart. Meanwhile, I lucked out with one of his fraternity brothers —a smart, kind, guitar-playing guy with a decent tennis game, who, bless his heart, is more fashion-impaired than I am. We’ve since raised three girls who learned to walk wearing blue-striped Oshkosh overalls.

 I can’t remember when I retired my trusty pair to the Goodwill fashion graveyard, but I’m grateful to the power of an insane crush, because that one silly party pic is the only photograph I have of me in my Round House bibs. It is, indeed, testimony to true love—the enduring denim variety, with reinforced seams, brass button hooks and hidden pockets to stash hopes and dreams.

~Stephanie Hunt

Stephanie Hunt is a Charleston-based writer whose best fashion move was having three girls. They got all the latent style genes in the family, and now edit their mother’s outfits. They don’t do overalls.