The Fashion Distraction

Clothes serve many purposes, probably the least relevant of which is keeping us warm. One such function is that since we all have to wear them, they give you something to talk to people about. And by people, I mean girls. It’s like guys and sports: an assumed common ground wherein one can have a fairly long, fundamentally impersonal conversation. It’s great.

My mother always told me that people love talking about themselves, and she’s so right. In general, if you find yourself in a conversation that’s stalling, ask a question. I’m sure the kinds of questions my mother imagined were along the lines of, “How do you like your job?” or “So, what did you think of the President’s State of the Union address?” but in my case, the questions lean more towards “Wow, I love that sweater, where did you get it?” or “That bracelet is too cute! Who gave it to you?”

Before you judge me, consider: People’s clothes always have stories, and it’s rare that someone will answer an enthusiastic compliment with, “I bought it at the store.” They got the sweater at Nordstrom last year when it got really cold in March, and it was on super sale, and there was a color they wanted more but wasn’t the right size. Or they found the bracelet at a street fair in Indonesia from a one-armed woman who carved it with her teeth. The conversations don’t have to be shallow; often these tales of acquisition lead into something much bigger, real stories of trips and relationships and life experiences. The clothes question is just a vehicle for more conversation, and it’s so much more interesting than talking about the weather. It can also be a subject changer.

Case in point: last Friday we were at the bar, and some girl drama occurred. I’m not completely sure what the grounds of it were, but all of the sudden Friend X was getting very huffy at friend Y. Seeing as X was a bit tipsy and Y appeared dumbfounded, it was pretty clear that this was a case of overreaction that had potential of blowing up quickly.

Enter me: Savior of Polite Conversation Everywhere. Trying to act tipsier than I was, and as if I were oblivious to their fight I blurted out, “OMG (yes, I say OMG) I looove your necklace! Where in the world did you get it?” Now, to my credit, I knew the answer to this question because friend X had told me already. So I knew that it was gonna be a long story that she would be eager to tell, and that there was emotional attachment so it would hopefully shift her focus away from random hostility. That was the plan. And it worked. Like a charm.

Surely there are triggers other than clothing for getting people’s attention, or maintaining conversations, or finding out about one another, but in a world where tempers run hot and emotions and egos are as delicate as calfskin, it behooves us to identify a common ground where everyone has a story to tell. And chances are, they’re wearing it.

I See London...

So I recently joined a gym. As previously mentioned, I’ve gotten a bit fat. Besides the point. The point is: I joined a gym. The catch: it’s a naked gym. Not totally, not while you’re working out, but at any point when in the women’s locker room, nudity is the status quo.

In fairness, it should be noted that they gym is in Asia (where I now live), it is quite expensive, and includes a cavernous, marble encased sauna/ hot & cold bath/ shower area. It also includes an overabundance of nude Asian women.

Now, as conservatives go, I’m not very. However, when it comes to the blatant parading of the naked form, I’d rather not. In general I have naught to be ashamed of, but I was raised with a sense of modesty for which I have come to be grateful. So when I initially joined there was a period where I was beyond of mortified at the idea of strutting my stuff in the buff. I was, however, shocked at how quickly this feeling vanished. Even in the company of my American co-workers. In fact, after only a day it was clear that it would actually be stranger to be covered.

That was stage one. And it was fabulous! For a blissful week I marched my naked, mildly jiggly self from one end of the locker room to the showers where I would scrub and rinse unashamed, before soaking and returning to my clothing a half hour later. The real freedom comes when no one else gives one shit about what you are doing. It was fantastic.

Then, the other day, I wanted to blow dry my hair. But even in my liberated state I could not bring myself to march proudly into the 360 mirror room which houses the blow driers, in full (though not fluorescent) lighting. I thought about it… all the old ladies do it. Again, it would almost be weirder to not blow naked (haha).

But in the back of my mind, I still felt like That Guy. The one who’s way too comfortable with his (cough) accessories, and parades around giving thumbs up and ass slaps at the gym. I am well aware that I would be the only one thinking such a thing, but none the less, I’m still an American. I still read the New York Times. I can’t do it.

Then came the worse realization. I’m a thong girl. My first boyfriend got me hooked on them and I never looked back. And the only thing worse than processing around in an Asian locker room filled with middle-aged nudies would be being the young American girl in a thong.

“Hi! I’m a slut!” it would say.

And that’s when it hit me…. The covering of my business, and the precise way I’ve chosen to do it is a direct implication (note: not indication) of my sex life. Nice see-through-dkny g-string, tramp. Point taken. Or, on a conservative day, a spandex Calvin Kline thong. No muss! No fuss! No modesty! SHAME!

If I was truly comfortable with myself, or truly confident in the apathy of my new gym buddies it would be irrelevant… except that as even the mildly socially aware person that I am I can guarantee that no one will bat an eye at my bootylicious American ass…. unless it is framed by a thong.

Our sins, it would appear, are in fact worn. Just underneath everything else.

Dressing the Elephant in the Room

Lately, I’ve gotten a bit fat. There’s really no polite way to put it. I have excuses, to be sure. I recently moved not only to a new apartment, but to a new country. I can’t read the language in said country, so I don’t know what to eat. Also, they don’t have veggie burgers here.

More to the point, I have spent the last three months eating packages of chips at a time, blindly consuming unidentified meat products, and washing it all down with a bottle of wine a night. Is anyone really that surprised I’ve gotten chunky?

And yet… I have the closet of the skinny person. While I, like all of us, fluctuate in my weight and pants size, I am only inclined to go shopping when I feel (and am) thin. My rational during such lean times (pun intended) is as follows:
1) I ought to always be this thin! This will give me motivation to stay this way forever!
2) I’m so thin, I look good in everything! Let’s buy it!

The consequences here are, of course, that every time I put on a few extra lbs., I have absolutely nothing to wear.

You know the warning signs. You feel it just a touch around the crotch and butt of your jeans when they start to feel just a bit small. Then there’s the shortening of the sweater… how did a sweater that used to sit adorably on my mid-drift mysteriously rise above it? And finally, the dreaded muffin top. I am ashamed I have let myself reach this point. But standing in front of the mirror donning a pair of pants that still fit (I swear!) and a long sweater, there was the hint of, sigh, extra. And no, in the world of getting dressed, more is never, NEVER better (unless it’s layers or subtly placed embellishment).

So what’s a girl to do. The first thing, as noted above, is LAYER. Layer the shit out of whatever base outfit you’ve squeezed yourself into. No one will notice the love handles if you’ve got a blazer on (no, the blazer does not have to close).

Sweater floating somewhere below your boobs? Put a button down, collared shirt under it. Embrace your inner preppy and go with it, even if it’s something you would normally never do. It’s a cute look which serves a dual purpose: no one will notice the short sweater because of the button-down sticking out from underneath, and no one will notice how tight the buttons pull because of the sweater on top.

Finally, let us say a word of thanks and praise for the baby-doll, or empire wasted, cotton sundress. Winter though it may be, throw on a pairs of leggings, a t-shirt or long sleeve t underneath, and a tailored cardigan or blazer on top. You’re done. Fat concealed, cuteness attained, and bonus points if you add a fantastic pair of boots. (Long necklaces also encouraged).

The key, my friends, is distraction, subtlety, and the prayer that you’ll have yourself together in a few months. Summer is mere moments away, and Lord knows it takes twice as long to undo what we have donneth unto ourselves.

Ex-essorizing

I am a very lucky girl. I am not a rich girl, not in the scheme of stratospheric wealth I have been exposed to, but I am a lucky girl. I have also dated some gentlemen who were members of the wealthy elite, and as a consequence, they bought me things. Some very pretty, fairly expensive jewelry has been acquired over the years, and while it was nice to receive it, I assure you I paid dearly in other, less fashionable ways.

Each gift meant the world to me. A gift of jewelry carries certain implications, even if the Tiffany box does not contain a ring. I wore my love on my sleeve, neck, and glowing, endorphin hazed expression. In turn, as soon as the relationships eroded to nothing, the bracelets were removed; an unchaining of arms, if you forgive the pun.

Seeing as how years have passed since the demise of said relationships, I wonder if I can wear the jewelry again. Is that somehow wrong?

It would be different if it were a T-shirt. An ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt is solely sentimental and fundamentally intimate, and should either be ceremoniously burned or used to clean toilets (a la Singles).

Jewelry, I feel, is different. I’m not throwing white gold in the trashcan, I can’t afford to have it melted down and made into something else, and I certainly won’t give it away. In a strange way, I feel like I earned these pieces. And while as a gift they were happy investments, I paid my debt in heartbreak. Is there something deeply inhumane about wearing your own scars?

Being a dutiful sentimentalist, the question makes me nervous. But I think I will give it wearing the jewelry a try. The years have passed, the emotions have processed, and I no longer disintegrate at the mention of certain Greenwich Connecticut residents.

It would be awful, though, to wear the pieces and encounter the ex (but at least it would mean you were looking fantastic…)

The Fashion Question

It blows my mind that some people think what you wear doesn’t matter. Like it or not, people can see what you look like, and since we can’t all run around naked all day (at least not all day every day) you’re going to have to get dressed. People are going to see what you are wearing, and then make a judgment based on what they see. Like it or not.

The way I see it, this is where the fun part starts. Through your clothes you have the opportunity to speak volumes, and every time you pick out an outfit you are choosing the message you want to send to the world. This message can be anything, from conservative to slutty to gothy to hungover. Even choosing not to care about what you wear is saying something, and some part of you wants people to know that. Like it or not.

Because it is such an unavoidable choice, fashion fascinates me. Not just high fashion, but low fashion, no fashion, and all the implications, assumptions, and confusion that comes with it. In this blog, I am hoping to engage in a twice weekly discussion of all aspects of the fashion question in whatever form that takes. We all have to get dressed everyday, we share that if nothing else. So let’s talk about it: what exactly are we doing?