No Pants Breakfast

It started out innocently enough.

The grandparents were in town for the week of Thanksgiving. We knew it was going to be a strange, intense week, and we prepared accordingly. There would be no talk of boyfriends, ex-husbands, estranged children or educational scandals. Proper manners, civilized language, and conservative dress. All the staples of a trauma-free Turkey day, all of which lasted approximately twelve hours.

It happened to me first. I had gotten up early, dressed, and was waiting patiently for the coffee to brew so I could crawl into work with my eyes at least partially open. I had planned ahead and done my hair and makeup before the shower could be overrun by the elderly, but no amount of preparation could have protected me from what happened next when dear, dear Grandpa came shuffling down to the kitchen in nothing but his skivvies.

It was horrible. I will spare you the specifics. I warned my mother when she reached the ground floor that Grandpa was in the kitchen. She didn’t understand what I meant until she saw what I meant. He was in the kitchen, all right. All of him.

I don’t want to make too much fun because it really is awful, but I do feel compelled to address the simple point that this will not do. It is never, never, not ever ok to go parading around someone else’s residence in your underpants. Especially family. Especially grown family. And especially when it’s not an accident. And if such a scenario does for some unimaginable reason befall you and you find yourself caught indisposed lurking over last nights left-overs, it is certainly not ok to linger! (Which of course is what Grandpa did, leaning on counters, enjoying a leisurely cup of café, much to our dismay).

I think we can all imagine what the (only!) exception to the mandatory-pants-at-breakfast rule must be, and in such situations it is certainly up to one’s discretion just how unclothed they choose to remain. I recommend a silk robe. Yet it is difficult to imagine that there could be any confusion when it comes to when it is and is not acceptable to throw propriety (and pants!) to the winds.

I suppose it could be argued that such a level of comfort and familiarity is refreshing, but I assure you: droopy drawers in the morning are not.

So people please, let’s all do each other a favor and air on the side of caution, and clothing, when it comes to the comfort of those around us. While some may feel at ease hanging out while it all hangs out, some of us prefer a more buttoned down approach. Or zipped. Or Velcroed for all I care. Just please, please, put on your pants.

Training Heels

I have a confession to make: I’ve developed an addiction.

As they tend to be, this addiction is immediately gratifying, but causes both short and long term physical damages.

I know better, but I don’t want to stop.

It hurts, but I like it.

They hurt, I should say.

I’m addicted to heels. Wedges, to be exact. In buttery leather, luxurious suede, patent leather, and in one special case, a divine combination. They’re averaging about three inches high and can be worn with absolutely everything. They anchor knee length skirts, sex-up suits, and add the perfect coolness to a pair of skinny jeans. They’re like the adult answer to Doc Martins—huge shoes that take charge, but this time instead of saying “Damn the Man!” they’re saying “I’m the man.”

Here’s the problem: I’ve never really worn heels before. This isn’t that shocking if you think about the difference between wearing heels sometimes, and really wearing heels. All day. Every day. At a job that requires you to run up and down a large, famous marble staircase multiple times throughout the day.

And let me just tell you, the heels have been hurting like hell. I’m able to put it out of my mind most of the day, but by the time I get home I am tiptoeing around like a coal-walker's apprentice. It never fails, too, that days I decide to give my tootsies a break are the days I’m required to sit on my tushey.

Yet this insane behavior goes back to my original sentiment about my job: it deserves aesthetic respect. And this means manning up and putting on my big girl shoes. That means heels. I feel like a child in flats, like I’m putting on my school uniform or dressing up in my mother’s work clothes. Serious shoes do more than dress you up, they pull you up, both in posture and perception.

Take out a magazine, a newspaper, or any form of media that features the kind of woman you admire. Not the models or the actresses in their contrived couture, but the people working behind the scenes styling, writing, and influencing these publications. Then look at their feet. They ain’t wearin loafers.

Kimora Lee Simons said it and said it well: “A woman can do everything a man does, and she can do it in stilettos.”

I’m not nearly to that point of success or stability, professional or podiatric, but I’m working on it inch by inch. In every direction I can.

Watch What You Wear

Shakespeare said it first and best: “Clothes make the man.”

Fine, the character he chose to iterate those words was a pompous ass, featured in a play dedicated to the skewering of all things pretentious and trivial, but the words have become entrenched within our societal lexicon.

Because they’re true, bitches.

I’ve said it many times and in many ways, but it bears repeating if only because for some, it seems the message has not sunk in: people can see what you’re wearing. And they’re noticing it.

I’m going to take a break from my normal self-aggrandizement to highlight two examples recently brought to my attention in which not only did clothes not make the (wo)man, they actively harmed her.

Case 1: A young-ish woman is appointed to a job at an organization made up of a city’s most powerful and influential people. It is rumored that she received the job as some sort of political favor/ exchange. She attends the first board meeting in a halter-top and flip- flops. Guess whose professional credibility is receiving further speculation.

Case 2: Another young woman’s company is called on to consult on an instillation project funded by a board consisting of older, conservative individuals. She is a tall girl and arrives wearing 6 inch, thigh high boots over tight jeans and a beret. I do not care how artistic you are. That is inappropriate. Also, the board chair said she looked like a Parisian hooker.

Ladies, you have got to get it together with the propriety. I mean, just because Lindsay Lohan insists on strutting into the courtroom like it’s a catwalk doesn’t mean the rest of us can forsake all semblance of societal awareness.

This is not a call to wear pantyhose, but it is a reminder that some people still do. And chances are that if you’re anywhere below 35, hose-wearers are the ones signing your checks.

As quoted above, Shakespeare’s Polonius reminds us that the correct outfit projects an image of control. By acknowledging that, you get to control what that image says. You can be aggressively arty at the art party, but maybe scale down the stilettos the next time the board convenes. You can also be aggressively assertive, demure, corporate, edgy, whatever. But know what you’re doing, especially when you’re in a setting (professional or otherwise) where the opinions of those around you matter.

Sometimes fashion isn’t about self-congratulation but simple strategy. Be yourself, but do so in a way that those you’re addressing will understand your message, rather than trying to force your self-image on an uncomprehending audience. They’ll only write you off or tune you out, which is no way to get what you want.

Case in point: all the words of Shakespeare don’t mean a damn thing if you don’t speak English.