SexyPants

I’m a person who loves their clothes. I have a closet I cultivate. People admire it. They compliment it. I’m used to this, and take pride in it. So it was with no small amount of surprise that I had a totally transformative wardrobe experience this week, all because of a pair of black pants.

As do we all, I already have several pairs of black pants: two dressy, one casual. Wide leg, boot cut, and skinny denim, respectively. So when I was at a consignment shop with some girlfriends this weekend, I was hesitant when they encouraged me to try on yet another pair of black pants. These were the new, cropped style, hugging the leg and stopping just above the anklebone. These pants have been around for a few months, and I have regarded them with complete distain.

I mean—what are they? Capris? Floodpants? Pants this length were everyone’s worst nightmare in middle school, if your jeans fell too high above your sneakers you had basically taped a ‘kick me’ sign to your own back. Plus, people wear them with socks. Visible socks!

To humor my friends I tried the pants on, and I was shocked. The length looked edgy, fresh, fun, and somehow sophisticated. Plus they were $14. A steal. Sold!

I didn’t realize the real power of the pants until I actually wore them a few days later. I was desperate for a pair of non-denim date pants, and these were my only option not relegated to Hamper Purgatory.

With reluctant resignation I pulled them on with my already complete outfit: blazer, blouse, heels. Suddenly it was as if a daring transformation had occurred: my shoes stood out proudly, and the two inches of ankle that showed looked hot as hell. I think I even got two years younger.

“Wait-- what? Why do I look so good right now?” I wondered. And then I remembered: “Who cares? I’m running with it!” And run with it I have.

The pants are magical. It’s something about the abrupt shortening of the length that leaves the foot so brazenly on display. As someone who too frequently buries their ankles under extra inches of fabric, this was a startling alteration. It’s not a frumpy look. It’s abrupt, clean, and definitive. And when you wear it, you look confident, sharp, and sexy. I’m obsessed, actually.

I’m certainly not advocating for cropping everything. Crop tops are acceptable only if your age starts with a 1-, cropped hair only for those with the bone structure to support it, and you may crop denim only if you live within walking distance to a large body of water or a cow pasture.

By cropping a dress pant you’re not exposing anything risqué- yet the effect is definitively alluring. It’s a call back to the days when a flash of the ankle was a cause to blush, yet feminist in its assertion of podiatric control.

Just make sure your footwear is up to the task. Nobody likes catching a glimpse of something they wish they hadn’t seen.

Closet Attack

My clothes are being attacked, literally and figuratively.

The most basic problem is the bunny. I have a pet rabbit. He is fuzzy, adorable, and wonderful. I’ve already come to terms with the fact that his white fur means I have to travel with a pocket-sized lint brush. It’s cool. We adapt.

What is not cool is the fact that I came home the other night to find that one of my trench coats had slipped off the back of my desk chair, right next to the rabbit cage. AND THE RABBIT ATE IT. Not the whole thing, of course, but he pulled the sleeve into his cage and went to town on it, leaving the entire arm riddled with rodent holes. I was shocked, pissed, and devastated.

AND THEN IT HAPPENED AGAIN. The very next night, I kid you not, the little monster got his teeth on one of my favorite Theory blouses. It’s a gorgeous, heavy, draped material, and once again one arm was sprinkled with rabbit-teeth.

I am so very aware that it is my own damn fault for letting the clothes and the creature get too close to one another. This was the first time(s) it’s happened—it will not happen again.

But now I’m left with the very real problem of what the hell to do with these things. They were not cheap, old, or disposable. And though they’ve endured some trauma, they’re far from tattered. So what’s a girl to do?

Try to fix it of course! Which leads to the more figurative attack.

Upon discovering the destruction of the Theory, I hustled out of bed and down to the kitchen with my sewing kit, determined to patch together the (very tiny) holes. There were three, about the size of cigarette burns, on the inside sleeve, near the elbow. I sewed. I looked. I saw nothing. Unless you knew what to look for, and unless you were hell bent on noticing tiny imperfections in the way the sleeve fell, there was no way you’d notice. Or so I thought.

It was after a full day of work, of talking to people, flirting with my crush, chatting with my bosses, and feeling really good about how my ass looked in my recently revived cream-kakis that I made a small comment about how my rabbit was eating my wardrobe.

“Oh, is that what happened to that shirt?” asked a b—girl I work with. She did not say it nicely.

The office erupted. “Oooooh!”

I was shocked. Really? “Really?” So they had all seen, known, and though they kept their much more tactful mouths shut, everyone now thinks that I’m a poor, shabbily dressed beggar who has to wear rabbit- tattered clothes to work. I might as well quit now.

In trying to justify my actions (and outfit), I’ve come up with all sorts of equations for cost vs. damage, square inches of fabric damage vs. fabric untouched, and justifications for how my shirt might have a hole, but you’re wearing teal acrylic. Eew.

In the end, though, I guess holey clothes just won’t cut it. So I will.

I’m cutting off the sleeves of the shirt and making it short sleeved. Which, in essence means I got 2 shirts for the price of 1.

So I win after all.

Moving The Closet

I’ve recently moved into the city from the suburbs, and it’s taking some getting used to.

I’ve moved my home base, my comfort zone, my routines, my commute, and my panic mechanisms to a totally unfamiliar location. It is exactly where I want to be? 100000%. It is freaking me the hell out? Even more so.

The most obvious thing I’ve had to do is pack my closet, which was less of a monumental feat than you might think for two reasons. First, I don’t pack. I pick things up in the neatly folded piles they are already in, or grab a stack of hangers from the closet, put them in the car, and then put them back exactly where they were, except in their new location. I’m not lazy, I’m organized.

The second reason moving was a breeze was because I was moving from The World’s Smallest Closet (think coffin sized) to The Worlds Largest. Well not quite that, but at least a big one. Four doors. Huge top shelves. This was the thing that sold me on the apartment for good.

Yet in spite of my transitional traditions and change-nothing attitude, some things have managed to get lost in the shuffle. The least among them is this really beautiful cream-colored satin blouse that I cannot find even there is absolutely nowhere left to look (and trust me, I have looked).

The greatest loss is my sense of style.

I understand myself well enough to know that for me, getting dressed is a daily way of expressing creativity. It’s also something I usually do very well. But since moving, I have lost all sense of rhythm and balance when it comes to my wardrobe.

I imagine this is because I feel out of place, out of my comfort zone, and uncomfortable in my environment (even though I love it!) I also know that this fashion-fail-fest has got to stop. I have a reputation to maintain, and showing up to work in black slacks, a blazer, and the too-tight shirt I bought in 2005 for my first ever internship is not the way to do it.

This is also freaking me out because usually my closet is the way I maintain control. It’s one of my major mantras: When life takes a crap on you, you still have to Get Dressed. And by doing at least that well, you’re giving yourself a head start on your day. In theory.

Yet here I am, unable to get a grip on a single sweater combination that doesn’t leave me looking like I just escaped from the asylum.

As things settle down, I have every expectation that my head will straighten out, and as it does, so will my hemlines. Plus, spring is on the way, and with it, a whole closets worth of pastels and pleats I’ve squirreled away through the winter.

Of course, that means that I have to move them all again……

Workout Wardrobe

I look ridiculous when I work out. I pound along, huffing and puffing on the treadmill, sweating so hard my entire shirt has gotten two shades darker. Even my eyelids sweat. My face turns from beat red to strange purple to a ghastly white. Honestly, I look like the chubby kid in gym class who you’re pretty sure isn’t gonna make that final lap without being removed on a stretcher.

Except that I do this at least three times a week.

In my civilian life, I probably come across as someone who’s a gym regular, who works out with a smile and maybe chats with a girlfriend while trotting through the park.

This couldn’t be farther from the truth. I exercise for both my silhouette and my sanity, but for some reason even after years of moderate commitment I have never acquired the effortless energy of a true gym rat.

I don’t help my case by wearing only gigantic t-shirts, humungous headphones, and (if I’m running outside) these extremely disgusting sunglasses which I only wear because I’m pretty sure they’re worth less than a dollar, so I won’t care if they are flung from my face and get run over by a truck.

And yet as I’m getting more serious about exercising (and, let’s be honest: man-finding) I’m beginning to feel like maybe I should take my outward appearance in the presence of the tight and toned a little more seriously.

Initially, my offensive aesthetic choices were a refusal to admit that I was taking myself seriously. To buy workout wear would be an admission that I was in fact ‘working out’, which, if one hasn’t in a while, is even less pretty than the picture I currently present. No one wants to be the kid in shiny new sneakers crying cause they’re getting blisters.

Yet by now enough time has gone by that even my desperate struggle to complete a 10-minute mile (ok fine—I’m up to three) has enough credibility that perhaps I could lose the look of shame in favor of something a bit more civilized.

I’m never going to be one of those girls strutting around in leggings and a sports bra (bitches). Nor will I exercise with my hair down, and unless I get that armpit botox I’m always going to be sweaty. But there has to be an attractive compromise to looking, well, attractive at the gym.

Maybe a fitted top with leggings. Some cute running shorts with a tighter t-shirt. I’ve noticed some girls wearing basic men’s v-necks with colored sports bras and they look great. (If I’m creeping on them this hard, what must the men be thinking?)

Although, by breaking my ugly-only dress code I have to realize that I’ll also be breaking my self-imposed code of silence at the gym. If I’m trying to pick up the men, I’m going to have to talk to them.

At which point they’re going to realize how desperately out of breath I am.

Sigh. You can’t win ‘em all.

Furry Problems

I am in the throes of a moral dilemma and it’s a case of life and death, literally.

The problem is fur.

I love it. I love the look of it. I love the feel of it. I love wearing it. I love sleeping underneath it. I love putting it on naked.

I may be turning into a cave person.

At least the cave people had justifications: the animals that died to clothe them were killed out of necessity, not narcissism.

In a modern world, this is clearly not the case. There are synthetics which offer equal warmth (they claim), indistinguishable aesthetic (they pretend), and at a lower price point. But these claims are flat out lies.

There’s nothing as warm as my rabbit mittens or fox fur hood. There are no slippers as cozy as my shearling moccasins. And as for the look, let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. I can spot faux fur as easily as a Cooch handbag.

Yet even within my own protestations I can indicate the desperate tones of justification. The fact is, I feel bad.

I’m an animal lover. A pet owner. I even experiment with vegetarianism. So how is it that the number of pelts in my possession is consistently increasing?

I will blame the phenomenon predominantly on my obsession with authenticity. I don’t want something that looks like something else. I want the real thing. When you lose something’s authenticity, you betray the essence of ownership. We can all go out and buy a fake Picasso just as easily as you can imitate a designer label.

So the question becomes: what is it that you’re willing to pay for, and why do you buy what you buy. People of means buy fancy things because they look better, feel better, and are made better than less expensive options. Your Payless pumps won’t last for five years of daily wear, but your Pucci ones might.

In contrast, if you’re pretending to own something you can’t afford, there are gonna be other indications that you’re a faker. People with Louis Vuitton luggage don’t drive Saturns. They just don’t.

Of course it’s different with fur because it’s not only a question of authenticity, but for many people a question of morality, and of humanity. No, there is no aesthetic or tangible synthetic equivalent to real fur. But it costs a life, and possibly a good deal of suffering. And no, I don’t think that my curling up with my coat is a fair justification for that.

And though I can tell myself that while wrapped in fur I’m being ‘earthy’, ‘organic’, and ‘fundamental’, I fear I may just be being a bitch.

I’m not necessarily going to win this battle within myself, nor am I going to stop wearing the fur that I have, though I may enact a personal embargo on further purchases.

At least I don’t own a bear-skin rug. Yet.