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Transatlantic Blight

The last time I flew across the country was four years ago, for half the price of today’s experience.  For that reduced rate, I received (in addition to transportation) a pillow, a blankie, unlimited adorable little bottles of water and my own personal mini-television.  I spent six hours snuggled up watching daytime television; a sick day without sickness or guilt.  Fast forward fours years.  What did I get for double the price?  A seat in a flying can.  Nothing but a seat back 8 inches from my face.  Not even a direct to dvd Adam Sandler or Jennifer Aniston movie (and, yes, I did feel a bit grateful for that.)  By the way, is it really that cost efficient to only have two restrooms for 200 people?  As an embarrassing aside, I have flown about 100 times in my life, and the force of the plane flush still scares the bejeezus out of me.

Prices have soared, amenities have been slashed but one thing has stayed the same: the passengers.  Bless their little lemming hearts.  Someone somewhere started the trend of dressing for travel as if one is having same-day surgery.  Sweat pants, velour track suits(!), cropped sweats(!), shower shoes (with socks!), plastic gardening shoes, have become de rigueur.  I suspect the “patient zero” of this abominable trend is somewhere cackling maniacally, clinking a glass of champagne with the chap who invented wearing pants six inches below one’s underpants.

Beyond the phenomenon of “same day surgery” dressing is the flat out counter-intuitive dressing.  Example A: a lovely young woman in a mini-sleeveless-white lace dress and 6 inch heels.  I could see her goose bumps from two gates away.  Example B: Non-military full body camouflage.  Huh?  Hoping to blend into your surroundings and sneak through security?  Example C: Athletic shoes and baseball caps.  Exactly what do you think is going to happen in that can?  A pick-up game of softball?  There’s no activity less taxing on the feet than sitting.  Wear shoes.  There is no glare in your eyes AND you are not a professional athlete at work.  Take the cap off.  Example D: (and for this I blame the travel apparel mail-order companies) Wearing one’s boarding pass as a necklace.  I’d elaborate more, but it just makes me want to cry.

To those handful of passengers who wore clothing with buttons and zippers, and seemed to acknowledge they were in public, I thank you.  For six hours in a can with nothing but a looming seat back in my face, at least I had you in my span of vision.

Beyond demanding our country redress the neglect of a national rail system, we can do our part to reinstate civility into travel.  Even as we the traveler are subjected to inhospitable treatment and care, we can demonstrate personal care.  Just a little attention to one’s appearance can go a long way.  Out of respect to those who must toil in airports and flying cans, and as a nod to one’s fellow travelers, leave the lounge wear in your carry-on please.  This is one of those times when it is best to follow the lead of the French.

 
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Posted by on September 21, 2011 in Travel

 

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What Is Our Blue Eyeshadow?

When watching an old movie, how long does it take you to pinpoint the decade?  How long before you can identify the year?  Maybe I possess a (previously unidentified) talent, but I can guess the time period in about 2-3 minutes.  The women are the very first barometer.  Even in a women’s prison film, the style of dress, eyebrow and shoe should speak volumes.  If there are no women handy, men will do.  Hair, hats, cut of the pants, will all point to a decade if not a year.  For the more advanced player, do try a period film.  Cleopatra is a good example of such an exercise.  I’m no anthropologist, but I’m going to venture that there was no blue eyeshadow before the common era.

Parlor games aside, I am struck by the notion that I can not identify any style of dress or hair after the 1980s.  Of course I can still pinpoint a film’s time period.  Sort of.  By the cars and size of the mobile phones.  But the fashion and style?  Not really.  I would be willing to concede that one never notices what will eventually become iconic, while actually living in the period.  But, and this is a big but; I am referencing over 20 years of indistinguishable style and fashion!  If you don’t believe me, try it yourself.  Your assignment is to describe to me a working woman in 1998.  What is she wearing?

Now, I don’t necessarily think a loss of iconic time specific style will be the death of our society.  I just wonder how it happened.  Is it the result of cheaper mass marketed clothing?  Perhaps this is what comes from sanitizing the design process for competitive cable television?  Is it the result of brand worship?  Did America even know which shoes to fetishisize before the 1990s? Perhaps it is more positive: could it be that the fashion playing field has become so democratic that there is not one style we can pinpoint as that of a recent decade.  Or, is fashion now like public behavior; anything goes?  Does a generation of women who think nothing of styling their hair in public (often in the vicinity of my dinner) feel a specific style would stifle her spontaneous, chip clip creativity?  Is style just too committal?

Life will go on, no doubt.  But it makes me a little sad, that in my doterage, when I turn on my subcutaneous video imagery receptor and watch a film from my “youth” I won’t be able to imagine myself in the time period.

 
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Posted by on September 10, 2011 in Style

 

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LOVE! Labor’s Loss

I have never particularly bought into the zeitgeist of summer, so it should come as no surprise that I feel hallow on this Labor Day’s Eve.

I have made my lemonade out of the lemons of summer fashion opportunities, embracing cotton brights to the point of resembling said lemons.  I have purchased belts in a feeble attempt at heat resistant layering and visual interest.  I have alternated straw hats as if they were wigs as a stab towards accessorizing.  In other words, I have made my peace.

So what is it exactly that has me giddy as a school girl this hallowed eve?  It is the silver lining on the cloud, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the light at the end of the tunnel that is cool weather.  It is just a matter of weeks now that people will have to start wearing actual clothes.  That’s right.  Set your watches dear reader.  Soon the bathing suit cover-up will go back in the drawer (or mercifully, in the beach bag) and off the streets of New York.  See-through blouses will be packed away; of course not before we share a word or two about see-through blouses.  Are you that proud of your bra?  Why?  Did you make it yourself?  And please don’t try and tell me that is not your bra, it is a bathing suit top.  Think about which dresser drawer you keep your bathing suits?  Where in the department store do they sell bathing suits?  Are you going to suggest that the visual merchandisers of America have it wrong, and bathing suits are in fact clothing?  Well, than ask yourself; “what am I wearing UNDER my bathing suit?”  If it’s touching your personals, it IS personal!

With that first cool breeze will also come the realization that one’s shorts are very very short.  Newsflash: clothes should cover where the cheek meets the leg.  And maybe, just maybe, if we have all been very good this summer, the cool autumnal breezes may banish the paper-thin white legging.  Dare to dream.

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2011 in Style

 

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The Joys of Summer (Fashion)

I am a four-season girl.  I cannot imagine living anywhere where time cannot be marked by nature.  I do not, however, love all seasons equally.  I’ve never been much for summer.  This is not entirely due to the heat nor the humidity, but rather how those elements play havoc with the desire to accessorize.  It’s only after I embraced the joy of the enormous floppy hat, earrings, and heeled sandals, that I started to enjoy donning a swimsuit.  For years, it was not embarrassment which kept me from socializing in the equivalent of water resistant underwear, it was how incredibly boring the outfit was!  Where is the creativity or joy in pulling on two pieces of clothing?  A bathing suit cover-up doesn’t really count as the third piece as all it really conveys is that one has something they’d prefer to cover up.

So here it is, mid-August, and I have done my due diligence with a drawer filled with colorful shorts and flirty cotton skirts.  I have collected a bevy of attractive and highly functional sandals, and several straw hats.  I have handbags and even a few pieces of jewelry which scream Summer.  And I have found my peace.  Now this state should be its own reward…


But it is challenging to be putting concerted, and not necessarily intuitive, energy into an endeavor that clearly is solo.  Have you seen what is walking the streets of this city?  (“Street walking” is an apt imagery.)  It is not clumsy attempts of seasonally appropriate ensembles that have sullied my soul.  I accept that appearance is not a priority for all.  It is instead the promotion of private parts to public parts that leaves me horrified/dejected.  For months, I have seen every size and shape of breast, spilling out of “not meant as outerwear” apparel.  The summer top or dress is ostensibly a set of pasties.  I am not referring to décolletage or snug fitting cotton blouses.  I am referencing the custom of 50-75% of the area in question to be al fresco.  Why?  Do they really suffer such heat exhaustion, they can’t be covered?  Is it simply the epitome of lazy, to use ones own parts as an accessory?

In the interest of fair and balanced, I must point out that the population’s nether regions have had their fair days in the sun as well.  Oh, the things I’ve seen.  And on public transport!  No doubt these women are the same who sanitize a public toilet seat within an inch of its life.  The hygiene contradiction is boggling.  For those who do not live alone or whose mothers are still living, they choose instead to wear see-through clothing.  Most of the transparent garments I have seen are not haute couture, but instead very cheap off the rack clothing that is meant to be worn with underpinnings.  Some choose to disregard this intention entirely (oh my eyes!)  Others see this as in invitation to wear the boldest most incongruous mass-market under things.  This might be a good place to mention that if one is old enough to pull up one’s own pants, one needn’t have underpants festooned with imagery.

I will trudge through the next month, donning sundresses, wearing silver jewelry and white pants, and pedicuring like mad.  But I will do so while longingly eyeing my sweaters, boots and scarves, and reminding myself that biology will win out: private parts do shy from the cold.

 
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Posted by on August 20, 2011 in Style

 

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