Dining: A Modest Proposal

Cost-per-square-foot being what it is, dining establishments need to get the most out of their real estate, and tables are jammed ever closer together. Sometimes the person next to you is actually closer (and easier to hear) than one's dining companion across the table.

Hence my proposal: restaurants need to implement a First Date section. That way all of the anxiousness, the awkward silences, and worst, the incessant bloviating can be confined to one area, minimally impacting the health and serenity of the diners who are actually there to enjoy a meal and some relaxed conversation.

Photo from LA Times.
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Dial M for...

A few weeks ago, my doc confirmed my growing suspicion from the last several menarche-free months: I have crossed the hormonal Rubicon. The good news is that this milestone was reached without much gnashing of teeth or hot flashes. However, in what seems to be an attempt to assert who's really still running the show here, my body has suddenly decided to take on a few pounds of extra ballast, rendering about half of my closet's contents just a bit too tight, and turning up the flame a bit under my low-simmering weight preoccupation.

There's no going back to those days of diets and counting points and agonizing over every five ounces up or down. I know better than to get caught up in that downward spiral of body-hatred and yo-yo-ing weight. Been there, done that, had the t-shirt in three sizes. I don't know whether this gain is a temporary aberration, or whether my metabolism has permanently ratcheted down another notch, in which case I need to cull the now too-small items from my wardrobe.

I'm far more sanguine about the deepening lines on my face and the softening jawline than I am about my thickening waistline. It's not like I still held out hope that someday I'd be reed-slender and able to wear all those styles that make me sigh, but my weight and shape had been stable the past few years and I'd worked so hard to make peace with my body. And now, it's changing again. This "aging gracefully" thing isn't so easy, is it?

Embracing Your Inner Bourgeois*

Or, What's So Bad About Looking Respectable?

*Title inspired from this comment from materfamilias on her post here, (responding to comments from the Scarves discussion at The Thoughtful Dresser), "Personally, I rather think that fighting one's inner bourgeois is a foolish and losing battle, and I'd rather embrace my and give her a bit of funk while I'm at it..."

From Merriam-Webster.com:

Main Entry:
1bour·geois
Pronunciation:
\ˈbu̇rzh-ˌwä also ˈbu̇zh- or ˈbüzh- or bu̇rzh-ˈ\
Function:
adjective
Etymology:
Middle French, from Old French burgeis townsman, from burc, borg town, from Latin burgus
Date:
circa 1565
1 : of, relating to, or characteristic of the townsman or of the social middle class 2 : marked by a concern for material interests and respectability and a tendency toward mediocrity 3 : dominated by commercial and industrial interests : capitalistic

Back in my 20's and 30's, one of the worst insults that could be lobbed at one was "bourgeois." Bourgeois carried the implication of staid, smug, middle class complacency, intellectual laziness, and indiscriminate materialism. Coming of age when I did during the counter-culture years, I fought against that part of myself that craved comfort, stability, and yes, luxury. As an outer manifestation of those values, my friends and I chased a more bohemian aesthetic, while I still secretly admired more classic and quality pieces that I saw on stylish, upscale women. The primary sartorial values my parents had instilled were a) buy quality fabrics and workmanship and b) stick to simple styles as you won't tire of them quickly. Not surprisingly, I've come full circle back to that way of thinking when it comes to style.

In the comments on Linda's Scarves post, a few people described Hermès scarves as looking too "bourgeois." In some instances, I think the word was being used in place of "stodgy" or "matronly," but I think also it was being used to represent that stuffy complacency that we ascribed to it way back when. But thinking about style and how it reflects our values, doesn't it make sense from the standpoint of avoiding mindless over-consumption to have a few good things that will last for decades rather than chasing trends or purchasing cheap throw-away-after-a-few-wearings types of items? Which is more materialistic and "bourgeois": the quiet luxury that an Hermès scarf conveys or the overwrought look of someone decked out in a "J'adore DIOR" t-shirt, huge Chanel logo earrings and a $2K bag splashed with overdone designer logos? (And yes, I recognize that there is a vast universe of middle ground.)

Sure, some of the Hermès scarf designs can be a bit stodgy, and I say that as someone who is nuts for anything with an equestrian theme. But it's all in how you wear it, and even the stodgy can become ironic if done right. To me, the trick is to keep the rest of the ensemble simple and current, and wear with an air of insouciance. Materfamilias gets it Exactly Right.

Stodgy is as stodgy does. A lack of intellectual curiosity, a dour and judgemental demeanor, and a miserly spirit will always appear dowdy regardless of what au courrant garments one wears, whereas a generous spirit, an open heart and a sense of fun will always look fresh. There's nothing wrong with wanting to have some nice, classic things. If that's bourgeois, so be it. And, as my grandmother used to say, "there's no point in having nice things if you don't use them."

Updated to add: I'd missed this earlier, but Duchesse at Passage des perles has some great comments on this topic as well. Another one to file under Great Minds Think Alike! Love this bit especially, "I began to wonder, as opposed to what? Insouciantly bohemian? Stoutly working class? Private-jet megarich?"

New York State of Mind - Partie Un

New York is not a city for the indecisive or the broke. I discovered this when I first worked there in the early 80's. I had moved back east with my boyfriend (who would eventually achieve ex-husband status) attending graduate school. I'd been accepted at Rutgers as a transfer student, but couldn't get the financing together to cover my tuition, so off to Manhattan job hunting I went, in a hand-me-down and out-of-date skirt from my mother, a bow-neck blouse my grandmother had bought for me as a going away present, and a jacket that barely matched either. I was a bit shocked to learn that even with two years experience in the same field, the jobs I interviewed for paid little more than minimum wage, which would barely cover my monthly commuter pass on the train. So I responded to an ad from an employment "agency" which turned out to be one balding guy in a moldy office with a bottle of scotch in the desk drawer (he offered, I declined) and was soon employed at a direct reponse advertising agency. I worked there for two months (long story short, I was hired for one job but the deparment head decided she needed a personal assistant, so that's what I did) then was referred by a co-worker for a job at a TV sales rep firm, where I found my niche, employment-wise.

The culture, that took some getting used to. Most of the other "girls" I worked with (yes, we were still called girls then) still lived with their families, and would until they married. This seemed to be the norm for NY women my age; I don't know if it still is. At lunchtime I'd tag along and watch while they shopped. And shopped. Even on our meager salaries, they didn't think twice about blowing most of their paycheck on a pair of $200 boots. I was brown bagging cream cheese sandwiches, and splurging on the occasional postcard at Fiorucci. On the train, I'd observe the women in their good suits and Louis Vuitton bags, which I had never seen nor heard of until then, and make notes for the future when I joined their ranks. (Even though I don't like logos, I still have a nostalgic feeling when I see LV monogram bags, and always associate that brown and tan print with successful, sophisticated, professional women.)

I learned that if you were ordering coffee to go from a lunch counter that a) the person working behind the counter doesn't want you to waste his/her time with saying hello, or asking how they are and b) that if you want black coffee, you had to order "coffee, black." "Coffee, regular" meant coffee with milk and "coffee, light" meant with more milk. I learned that the Greek guys behind the lunch counter were always nice to young women and would sometimes give you a large salad when you'd ordered a small. I learned the difference between street harassment and a nice compliment from a stranger. I learned where to stand on the subway platform during rush hour to be able make it into the next train. I learned where you could buy a beer in a brown paper bag at Penn station for the Friday night ride home, and that there wasn't a bathroom at the junction where you caught the "Dinky" into Princeton proper.

Almost twenty years passed between the time I first worked in NY, and when I started travelling there for work. And in that time, the city seemed to have transformed into something a lot cleaner, a bit friendlier, and less foreign. In the early 80's, if someone bumped into you they'd growl or say "watch where you're going!" Now, they say "excuse me." But the biggest change isn't the city itself, it's being there with some financial resources behind me. The ability to afford a sit-down meal, a decent hotel room, (or in this case, be here on business and having most of my expenses covered) makes a huge difference in how I perceive this city. I loved it then, but felt like an outsider. I love it now, and feel like a welcome guest.

Par avion

Une femme loves to fly. I love almost everything about it (except the lines and the hassle of practically stripping down to skivvies to go through security and then having to scramble to put everything back on and grab possessions off the conveyor and the appalling lack of legroom in coach, even for 5'1" me). I love the smell of jet fuel as you get close to the airport. I love seeing the planes lined up at the gates and love watching them take off and land. I love finding my seat and the acceleration as we take off. I love seeing the familiar and unfamiliar landscapes spread out like maps below me.

First flight, here's what I remember: I was 4, my sister 1-1/2. Being trussed up in our best clothes (fancy dresses, stiff petticoats, patent leather mary janes) and lectured about how we'd better behave, dammit. Passing through a large hangar-like building and crossing the tarmac and up the stair-on-wheels to board the plane. Jr. Hostess wings from the stewardesses (back then they were all female) and going up front to meet the pilots and see the cockpit. Chewing gum to make our ears pop. A hot meal with silverware (at that point the most elegant meal I'd had in my young life). Looking out the windows and playing with the shades. Saying "wheee!" when we hit turbulence. Using the (then) space-age potty. Landing in Chicago, sleepy. Light fixture on the ceiling at Midway airport looked like stars. Boarding the plane for Wheeling, having to walk uphill from the back of the plane to our seats. Little cloth curtains on the windows, and the wings had propellers. Waking up as we landed.

Another flight I'll never forget involved propellers as well. When I was 16, my mother, my sister and I had flown with another family to Vancouver, and were connecting to Victoria. My mother was a nervous flyer and hated smaller planes and propellers especially. When we got to the boarding area and she saw that our connecting flight involved both, she headed to the nearest bar and started drinking. By the time we took off, she was already at twenty thousand feet. It was a beautiful flight that stayed fairly low and we flew over pretty green islands, some with sheep on the hills. On landing, which was a little bumpy but nothing out of the ordinary, our mother threw her head into her lap and started screaming "we're going to DIE! We're going to DIE!" (Oh, and during the flight she'd burned a hole in her dress with her cigarette.) The whole cabin of twenty or so people cracked up but we pretended we didn't know her until we got into our rental car.

Then, for a lot of years, I didn't fly at all. When I did start flying again, it was a new era, no longer special or elegant. People in sweats pushed and shoved to board, the seats were sometimes covered in crumbs or stuffed with trash from the last occupant, the flight attendants were surly. It had become Greyhound with wings.

If you're reading this on Monday, I am probably somewhere between home and the airport, or waiting to board my flight, or 32,000 feet over Missouri, or landing in New York. But there's another flight I plan to take sometime in the few months, and it doesn't involve crowds or even pressurized cabins:I had planned to take a ride in an open cockpit bi-plane for my 50th birthday, but then we went to Paris instead. I had hip surgery a few weeks before my 51st birthday. But I'm not going to wait for another birthday to pass before I have this adventure. The ironic part is that mon mari hates flying, and so I'll probably have to take my son up with me. He shares my love of the wild blue yonder.

Care and Feeding

In my 20's, I had a close friend who was heavily invested in her appearance, especially with regard to maintaining a very toned, thin body. She made no bones (no pun intended) about the fact that this was the most important thing in her life. People were always commenting on her slender figure and asking how she kept it. "I take care of myself," she'd sniff just a bit haughtily. Her version of taking care of herself demanded unswerving and relentless rigidity regardless of circumstance: eating less than 1000 calories per day, usually two but sometimes three daily aerobics classes, and eventually, abuse of laxatives. (Do I have to admit that my younger, eating-disordered self envied her for her thinness and for what I perceived at the time as strength and discipline, only understanding in later years that it sprung from self-hatred and obsession?) We started drifting apart after I started finding my way out of ED-ville, and began moving away from our shared worldview.

So a lot of years passed where hearing the words "I take care of myself" made une femme bristle a bit. It always fell on my ears sounding a bit self-righteous and disingenuous at the same time. I've seen a lot of people do a lot of ultimately self-destructive things in the name of "taking care of themselves" which to many always seems to equate to "staying thin and young-looking." And I've seen some naturally very thin people with really crappy habits get a pass, and get credited with good self-care when it's really mostly Doritos and genetics.

But to be able to live a stylish, adventurous, balanced, delicious life after 50, more and more attention to self care is required. So what does that look like? And how does one separate what really nurtures and energizes from what is intended to achieve a specific culturally-approved look? I've come to realize that this is a highly individual formula, and that it must shift with time and circumstances. Taking care of myself in my 20's meant (among other things) running three miles a few times a week, because it made me feel wonderful and gave me lots of energy, but that same regimen would be murder on my joints today. (I miss running, I really do.)

Self-care at this point in time involves the following (in no particular order):

• A bit of protein with every meal, and fresh fruits and veggies as often as possible.


• Limiting sugary foods to immediately after meals (prevents blood sugar crashes)


• Walking as much as possible, and once I'm cleared by the orthopedist, riding my recumbent stationary bike a few times a week


• Regular dental care (more and more evidence that gum disease is a factor in a host of other serious conditions, such as heart disease!) Flossing daily in addition to brushing.


• Regular medical checkups


• Remembering to take my thyroid med every morning


• Sleep (getting 8 hours is a challenge at times, but I try)


• Wearing clothing that fits my body NOW, not when I'm five pounds thinner


• Wearing a seatbelt (it's the law here, but still)


• Down time where no one is making demands on me (I get up an hour before the rest of my family to achieve this)


• SUNSCREEN. Every day. 40+ SPF.


• Writing for this blog.


• Doing some stretches daily, again once the orthopedist signs off (I'm restricted from certain movements until my bones have fused to my artificial hip)


• Vitamin, calcium, and fish oil tablets daily


• A bit of dark chocolate daily, and a glass of wine a few times a week.


• A good laugh at my own expense at least once a day. ("I used to be disgusted/But now I'm just amused.")

While this may sound like an exhaustive (and perhaps exhausting!) list, the truth is that I've been able to incorporate most of these into my daily routines and they now are mostly habit. Although no one would probably ever point to me as a picture of glowing fitness, the rest of my life doesn't have to wind and twist like a topiary around what I do in the name of health. Because really, how "healthy" would that be?

Don't Ask, Don't Tell?

Une femme grew up in an era when Manners still mattered, and having them was a baseline indicator that one wasn't raised by wolves. I'm not talking about your finger-bowl, lobster-fork, cotillion-dance-card manners, but the everyday kind: the please-and-thank-you, holding-the-door, not-staring-at-the-wooden-leg manners. And the kind of manners that advised against openly discussing topics like potentially embarrassing medical conditions, relatives in sanitariums and personal finances with people to whom you aren't closely related, and even with some you are. I learned at a young age that it was considered rude to ask how much money someone made or how much their dress cost.

So it still generally makes me quite uncomfortable when someone with whom I don't share a joint checking account asks me how much I paid for something. I've been asked how much my bags/shoes/clothes cost by a range of people from family and friends, to folks who work in my office that I don't know past saying hello in the elevator, to total strangers. (Though I don't mind in situations where the question about price relates to a shared interest or hobby, or in the context of this blog or some of the online communities I participate in, as there's some degree of anonymity.) I generally hem and haw and give a vague "oh, bigger than a breadbox" kind of answer, and end up feeling guilty like I'm the one who's being rude. I'm not above bragging about getting a good deal occasionally, but for the most part, I prefer to play my financial cards close to the vest.

Am I just a throwback in these Oprah-fied let-it-all-hang-out times? Or have people really become ruder and more inappropriate? How do you handle those invasive questions from Nosy Nanette's who feel seem to feel the need to keep a running appraisal of your closet?

Junk Food Clothing

One of une femme's projects while home recuperating from hip surgery has been to "cull the herd" in my closet. Going through the rows of hangers, I've come to the conclusion that I often shop the way I used to eat. Just as I used to diet/starve myself and then binge, a lot of my clothing purchases have also been in response to a feeling of prior deprivation, and my closet gets bloated with items that have little sartorial value.

Until recent years, economic constraints limited my style to what I could find to fit me (or a close approximation thereof) either at thrift stores or on deep discount. I'd page through magazines and catalogs and daydream about being able to afford the stylish vêtements displayed on the glossy pages. It's only been in recent years that I've been able to walk into a department store and buy something off the rack, even before it goes on sale. But like someone coming off a diet and heading for the Cool Ranch Doritos instead of some handmade olives and salami, I've balked at paying the prices for any single garment that would provide the quality and style my malnourished wardrobe longs for. I'll pass up a very nice pair of wool crepe pants for $250 that will satisfy my craving for elegance, and buy three pairs of the polyester version at Chico's for $89 each. C'est fou, non? (For some reason, I'm able to overcome this hesitancy when it comes to handbags and other accessories.)

Materfamilias also touched on this earlier in the week when she posted about her influences and thought processes that have recently been holding her back from purchasing. This part especially really mirrored my own experience:

Part of the over-purchasing or purchasing errors can be blamed on the insecurities associated with the aging process. Trying to find something that works for a slightly-different body and that will look neither dowdy nor foolish, change room after change room, perky young salesgirl after perky young salesgirl, can often make a dress (or top or skirt) seem just perfect when the home mirror reveals it to be somewhat short of that. As well, the vagaries of fashion often mean that several seasons will pass with scarcely any offerings that suit so that when a season with shapes and colours I love comes along, I tend to grab and hoard in case of future droughts.

The age factor does play a part here too in contributing to that feeling of deprivation. Even going up a price point or four, what's readily available often resides on either end of the Great Menopause Divide, with not a much available stylewise between Marc Jacobs and St. John. And forget about Petites. Even when something workable from Theory or Vince comes along, it's inches too long, and often unalterable without impacting the line of the garment. (Yes, I know: Dressmaker.)

That "stocking up in case of famine" thinking is part of my M.O. as well. The fear is that I've never, ever find another jacket/t-shirt/sweater/pair of pants that fits me, so I'd better buy extras. Just like I knew that when Monday morning hit and the diet resumed, I'd never, ever have ice cream again, so best to finish off the whole half gallon on Sunday night.

Well, I've learned that's no way to eat, and though I've realized that's no way to shop, I need to start walking the walk. And get back to purging that closet.

Of Holy Grails and Chasing the Wild Goose

Suburban Splendor!

When une femme was a jeune fille, every now and then my parents would partake in that early 60's phenomenon known as the Cocktail Party. Dad would stock the bar, Mom would stock up on frozen hors d'oeurves that required only fiften minutes at 400 degrees to reach their peak of roof-of-mouth-burning steamy goodness. As party time approached, Mom would wiggle into her girdle, slip on a "cocktail dress", heels and some red lipstick and start pre-heating the oven, while Dad emptied ice trays into a bucket. At exactly 5:30pm, the stereo would be fired up with some Arthur Lyman, and the kids would be banished to the bedroom with a small black and white TV, after a dinner bowl of Cheerios (which today would get you accused of child abuse, but at the time we considered a real treat) from where we'd creep out into the hallway to sneak a peek at the dressed up grownups guzzling GinandTonics. As the night wore on and we grew increasingly bored and tired, and increasingly hyperactive, threats of "don't make me come in there!" echoed down the hall as we jumped up and down on the bed and launched ourselves across the room at a pile of pillows or broke each other's toys. (My mother's expression, "the more the adults drink, the sillier the kids get" held some truth.)

We did hate being shut out of the action (and attention). But seeing my parents and their friends get dressed up was as close as I got to glamour in those days, and une femme has always been a sucker for glamour. I was certain that when I was old enough, I'd put on a fancy dress, heels and red lipstick, and have my turn to sparkle.

Even now as I've passed the 50-mark, two of my markers of female adulthood have eluded me. I have yet to find the "little black dress" that every style book under the sun says I must have, and have had only fleeting success with finding a wearable red lipstick. At this point, one must question how essential these actually are, yet my quest for these two Holy Grails continues.

Yesterday I spend a couple of hours trying on some LBD's at Macy's and Nordstrom, and a more unflattering, unsophisticated lot of garments I've never seen. High-necked, boxy, babydoll (I thought that trend was supposed to be over!), cap-sleeved, smocked, tentlike...and not a waistline in the bunch! As a short, big-busted and short-waisted femme, the available selection was like a parade of DON'Ts for my figure type. At this point, it seems my only choices are to either give up on the LBD or find a dressmaker.

But I did have a smattering of luck with the lips, after trying a few brands and colors. While not a true red, Laura Mercier's Stickgloss in "Poppy" is a bit sheer and works with my coloring without looking clownish. I'd tried this before when my hair was lighter and rejected it, but with my current hair color it works. I'm still open to a true red for the cocktail parties and art gallery openings I hope to be invited to someday. Most of the time I want a subtler look but still with a bit of color and shine, and found Laura Mercier's Lip Plumper in "Persimmon" which not only feels good on (it's the peppermint) but seems to have pretty decent staying power for a gloss.

Glamour still eludes me, but at least my lips look good.

Sage Advice or Ageism?

It's no secret that we live in a culture that doesn't exactly revere our elders. It's generally assumed that "looking younger" is a universal and laudable goal. Now, that goal is even being packaged as an economic investment, especially for women (but men aren't immune). To get a better job, or to keep the one you have, getting bleached, dyed, nipped, tucked, lipo'd, and/or botoxed is presented as a smart career move. Employers want people who are keeping up with the times in a fast-paced, constantly changing environment, we're told, and looking like the grandmother of the hiring manager signals that we no longer have the energy or mental nimbleness to keep up. The generation that declared, "never trust anyone over 30" is now reaping what we've sown.

One of the latest and most unambiguously titled books in this arena is How Not to Look Old: Fast and Effortless Ways to Look 10 Years Younger, 10 Pounds Lighter, 10 Times Better by Charla Krupp. I haven't read the book, but according to the New York Times article Nice Résumé. Have You Considered Botox?,

The book is the latest makeover title to treat the aging of one’s exterior as a disease whose symptoms are to be fought to the death or, at least, mightily camouflaged. But the book offers a serious rationale for such vigilant attempts at age control, arguing that trying to pass for younger is not so much a matter of sexual allure as of job security.

“Looking hip is not just about vanity anymore, it’s critical to every woman’s personal and financial survival,” according to the book jacket.

The NYT writer, Natasha Singer goes on to say:

Many people would shun a book if it were titled “How Not to Look Jewish” or “How Not to Look Gay” because to cater to discrimination is to capitulate to it. But the success of “How Not to Look Old” indicates that popular culture is willing to buy into ageism as an acceptable form of prejudice, even against oneself.

“Ageism is one of the last frontiers of discrimination where people think that a way around it is not to be seen to age, but we would never say that women should try to look or act more male in order to avoid sexism,” said Molly Andrews, a psychologist who is a director of the Center for Narrative Research at the University of East London.

I'm of a mixed mind about this. In my line of work, we really don't care about age so much as experience, and whether the individual seems to have kept up with technology and is willing to continue to learn. Some of the most forward-thinking people I deal with daily are well over 50 and don't go to great pains to hide it. Still, if I were to find myself unemployed tomorrow, I'd probably be scrutinizing my appearance and wanting to present myself as energized and contemporary if not necessarily younger. At this point in my life, I'd probably draw the line at anything medical though.

What about you? Does age impact your career? How far would you go to improve your job prospects?

Old Mu Tu

Every bit of clothing ought to make you pretty

You can cut the clothing, grey is such a pity

I should wear the clothing of Mr. Walter Mitty

See my tailor, he's called Simon, I know it's going to fit

For Whom the Bell Sleeve Toils

In which Une femme ponders, "for whom do we dress, and what does it mean to look one's best?"

Those of us who regard style as self-expression like to think we dress for ourselves. Yet even so, we are dressing with the understanding that we will be seen and in being seen, convey a bit of who we are.

A couple of recent posts over at The Sartorialist (and some of the follow up comments) really highlighted some of the divergent ways people approach this issue. On his post from Friday, 11/23/07, "A Less Narrow View", Sart says, Often I read comments on this blog like "Shouldn't clothing enhance a woman's form and femininity? " or something of that nature. I think this is a very narrow view of what clothing should/could do for a person. Clothing only needs to keep you protected from the elements, past that what you do with them is your option. This young lady is a great example of self-expression and intellectual dressing.Nothing she is wearing really speaks to WHAT she is physically ( fat or skinny, tall or short, male or female) but her look speaks volumes about WHO she is mentally.

I love this distinction he's making. Do we dress for our bodies, or do we dress for our heads? It's the whole philosophical body/mind duality issue writ in fabric. It's often assumed that women's primary motivation with regard to style and appearance should be to "enhance their form and femininity"* and strive to achieve an appearance that conforms as closely as possible to cultural standards of attractiveness, and many women have subscribed to this concept. (And going to extremes, there are actually people who espouse the notion that it's a woman's obligation to look as attractive as possible.) Watch any daytime talk show or "makeover" shows, or read through most style books and the predominant view is that style is all about the body. Accentuate the positive and eliminate (or camouflage) the negative. The result often is a closet full of clothing devoid of any expression of the personality of the wearer.

At times I think we women (and I include myself in this) can get so hung up on what is "flattering," or that which most closely conforms to the thinner/taller/younger cultural ideal that we inhibit the self-expressionistic component of style**. We all want to look our "best" but that isn't always about what clothing accentuate our waists and makes our legs look two miles long. I grew up believing that the Clothing Prime Directive was One Must Wear Only What Makes One Look Thinner. I still have a tough time letting go of that, even when it means passing on something that otherwise really speaks to me.

I don't think the answer lies totally abandoning those cuts and styles that fit and flatter, but rather that we look at style as serving who we are not just physically but creatively, emotionally and mentally, and that we don't subjugate all sartorial self expression to Pretty Über Alles. Finding that balance is where style becomes art and inspiration. What makes us look "our best" often means incorporating both elements that enhance our physical selves and those which express our personality, even if it would make Tim Gunn cringe.

*Walk around Newport Beach and you see a multitude of women who have subscribed to this viewpoint, a bland cookie-cutter army of extremely slender, mostly blonde, designer-jean-clad trophy-wife-bots. It's a look almost devoid of any individuality.

**Of course, I did get into dog-with-a-bone mode in comments on one of his subsequent posts about why curvy, petite women don't want to wear double-breasted jackets, but I'm nothing if not conflicted.

Identity, Style and Inspiration

While une femme's sense of self and style these days is not quite as all over the map as I intimated in the Dolly Parton post, I have done my share of floundering. But style and identity have always been linked in my mind, and I've never been quite able to totally separate "who am I?" from "how do I appear?" *

The floundering part I partially blame the era in which I grew up, and some of the monumental shifts that occurred during my formative years. By the time I was twenty, I'd seen style shifts from the Jackie-Kennedy-suits-pearls-and-white-gloves or movie-stars-in-leopard-coats, to Beatle-boots-Beatle-everything, to Mod-GoGo-Boots-mini-skirts (think Laugh-In) to dirty-hippies-in-jeans-beads-and-huaraches, to granny-dresses-and-earth-shoes to satin disco pants.

And real life women whose styles I admired and wanted to emulate spanned just about as great a range. There was the fashion designer friend of my parents in the early 60's who I can't picture now but remember that she seemed very glamorous to my five-year-old eyes, and who taught me how to design dresses for my paper dolls. There was the Swedish photographer my parents hired when I was ten to take our portraits, who dressed very simply in turtlenecks and hand woven ponchos and took our pictures with a Hasseblad and inspired me to become a photographer. There was the neighbor's daughter hired to babysit us, who was an honest-to-god San Francisco hippie, wore real Mexican serapes and silver jewelry, went barefoot and smoked cigars and introduced me to FM radio, (which at the time totally changed my life). There was my college roommate who had lovely silk/satin pants and Chinese jackets that she loaned me. I wanted to copy the style of each of those women. I wanted to be most of those women. I tried on persona's and then cast them off so many costumes in a stuffy dressing room.

But the style upheavals of those years were indicative of greater shifts in culture, values, and roles and expectations for women. A book I read a few years ago, Appetites: Why Women Want by Caroline Knapp, though it was primarily about anorexia and eating disorders, also touched on the idea of the overwhelming number of choices that young women have today as opposed to a couple of generations ago, and how it can make them turn back in on themselves and develop eating disorders or other self-destructive behaviors. Women of my age and socio-economic status were right on the cusp of this change. Most of our mothers were housewives and and assumed that we, their daughters, would be as well. But the women's movement of the 60's and 70's changed all that, and while the prior lack of choices had felt stultifying, the sudden broad scope of possibilities felt a bit like being on the open sea with no maps or navigational abilities. Not that I'd ever want to go back, mind you. Watch a few episodes of Mad Men if you need reminding.

That's why I envy people who seem to have the kind of blinding clarity and a certain integrity about who they are and how they want to look, whereas I seem to sort of stumble on it by accident. When I wrote about dressing-from-the-inside-out, it was one of those days where I felt I had hit the right note of alignment between self and style. I'm getting a better sense of what that means for me, in this body, at my age. But it doesn't mean that I still don't vacillate and question and let myself be influenced (sometimes too much) by something I see on someone else. That balance between consistency and currency requires a balance between trusting one's own judgement about what works, and staying open to new possibilities. Still negotiating a broad and changeable ocean, I may not have a map, but do have a compass.

(*While I realize that "identity" is far deeper than how we appear, I'm referring to the "how we present ourselves to the world" aspect. )

The Mutton Roundup

If this is mutton, sign me up.

Photo: http://www.exposay.com/

Seems this is a hot topic these past few days.

Linda Grant at The Thoughtful Dresser says Fie! on the "Mutton Monitors" (and dons a lovely leather rocker jacket), and today argues in favor of dressing with attitude. Linda says,

"The point about these three was that they understood that the parade has most certainly not gone by. None of them looked ridiculous, they had elegance and distinction and above all, a strong sense of personal style. You understood at once that their clothes mattered to them, because they understood why clothes matter.

Look at me, they said. And I did."

Materfamilias asks "Who wants to be a lamb anyway?" and makes a case for developing an individual style that incorporates both classical and whimsical elements.

Meg at Faking Good Breeding takes Patricia Fields to task for putting SJP in getups that look like "she fell into the dumpster behind Forever 21" and makes the point that just because one can wear something, doesn't mean one should.

I've been reading "It's So You: 35 Women Write about Personal Expression Through Fashion & Style", edited by Michelle Tea, and Laura Fraser makes a great point about developing an individual style that is never "out" because it was never "in" in the first place. It seems to me that women who continue to look stylish as they age and don't fade into the woodwork are the ones who have figured this out.

Hitting the Style Sweet Spot

Do you ever have one of those days when you just sort of dress from instinct, don't put a lot of thought into it, but when you look in the mirror, you realize what you're wearing feels so totally like you? Today was one of those days for me, and tells me that perhaps I've been overthinking this style thing, and letting myself get too influenced by what I see on The Sartorialist or style blogs/books or other people.


Women our age are constantly warned against falling into a style rut. We're told that we need to keep updating our closets and our look. Makeover shows hawk transformation: the "after" woman not only looks more stylish, but also has more confidence and assertiveness. But I often wonder, when the look they're given is so drastically different than where they started (especially if it requires more maintenance) how many actually sustain these changes over time? Sure, we need to push the style envelope at times, but do we need to totally discard those tried-and-true elements that feel like second skin? And how much of a style "rut" is actually a rut, and how much is a clearly defined, consistent style?


Or can we use those dressing-from-the-inside-out days to help discover our own style foundations and build upon them? What are the elements of what I wore today that feel so right for me? Minimalism, a neutral color scheme (black and grey), comfort, boots, nothing fussy or frilly. While everyone needs some variety, sometimes at our age, we need to edit more than we need to append, and getting down to our style core is essential to editing wisely. (I think I feel a major closet purge coming on...)


One of the things that comes up frequently about French women's style, even more than their talent for clever tying of scarves, is that it's so integrated with who they are. They don't radically change their style from year to year or even decade to decade, they don't have closetsful of this year's trend, and they aren't afraid to wear a favorite item repeatedly. They seem to be comfortable with this kind of instinctive dressing; it's not that they don't put in some effort, it's that they don't put in too much.

Mutton, Lamb and Keeping Our Cool

Wee cutie pie dressed as lamb.

One expression that pops up frequently when it comes to age inappropriate style is "mutton dressed as lamb," often applied to us old broads when someone feels we aren't following the rules for our age group, whatever they might be at the time. As offensive as I generally find that expression, I do believe there is such a thing as age-appropriate dressing, and that "age-appropriate" can still leave a lot of room for individual style, for flair and creativity, for elegance, and even for a bit of understated sexiness.


I used to participate in the occasional focus group, and one I did many years ago for face cream introduced me to the phrase, "down-aging," meaning that women are looking and acting ten years younger at 40, 50, 60 than they did a generation ago. While I think it's great that we no longer are forced by convention to follow arbitrary dictates once there are a certain number of candles on the cake, tossing the rulebook out the window always results in some floundering.

In our youth-obsessed culture, it's just assumed that we all want to look 25 years old. It seems to une femme that women who have a large part of their identity tied up in being conventionally attractive seem to have the toughest time letting go of styles that worked for them in their youth. In my humble opinion, there is a point where hanging onto the fashions that worked in our 20's starts to backfire, and makes us look not only older, but sometimes even ridiculous. (The exception seems to be those fortunate women who develop a unique and timless style early in life, and hang onto it through the decades.) Even if our weight remains constant, our bodies and faces change with time, and what was flattering for us a couple of decades ago may no longer be so. Too much skin, too much "flounce" (ruffles, lace, eyelet, cutesy details), too much makeup, too many trends worn simultaneously...all of these are traps for the not-so-young woman.

But on the other hand, throwing aside all concern for contemporary style can result in looking dated, frumpy and disengaged, which for women (and men) working in a corporate environment is an economic risk when outsourcing, downsizing, realigning and streamlining means we're often in competition for jobs with recent college grads.

How does one walk that fine line between dressing "too young" and looking like a member of the Sunny Acres Shuffleboard Team? Sherrie Matheison's book, Forever Cool: How to Achieve Ageless, Youthful and Modern Personal Style has some great pointers. Matheison stresses simple, clean lines, choosing colors carefully (she's thumbs down on jewel tones, thumbs up on brights and earth tones), keeping accessories clean and current, and not being afraid of bold jewelry. What I like most about this book is that it's packed full of before-and-after photos of real women of different sizes and doesn't try to squeeze everyone into a single, boring, cookie cutter style. There's also a section for men, and shopping suggestions. While her "after" ensembles aren't universally appealing to me, there's enough variety to get some general ideas that can be adopted to suit one's indivdual preferences. This isn't a book for serious fashionistas, but I think it is one of the more practical style guides out there for les femmes d'un certain age.

These are a couple examples of "after" work looks that appealed to me.

I've mentioned before that I've at times been tempted to hire a stylist, if only for an afternoon to help me go through my closet and figure out what works for me and what doesn't. While I know what appeals to me when I see it on a hanger, I'm not always the greatest judge of how well certain styles look on me, though I am good with colors. It's probably a good idea for us all to get the benefit of a discerning but unbiased eye from time to time to help assess whether updates are needed. While looking like a sweet young thing may no longer be in the cards, looking smart, fresh and contemporary is a real confidence booster. And we're never too old for that.

116 Pounds is the New Fat!

Crap like this is why I started dieting at 14 years old and 103 pounds.

Plumcake and Glinda over in Manololand shred this horseshit quite amusingly, but it just makes me feel sad and angry.

Sad because it brings back all of the years I wasted being obsessed with getting thin, with hating myself, with eating disorders, with putting my life on hold until I achieved a certain size, and with believing that gateway to happiness would open at x pounds.

Angry because some 15 or 13 or 8 year old girl is going to read this magazine, and it's going to reinforce our media/cultural designation of what "fat" is, and she's going to waste years of her life fighting against a normal woman's body, or worse, develop a serious eating disorder. Angry because purveyors of weight loss plans that don't work (and just make us fatter in the long run) are going to get richer. Angry because it validates the sense of entitlement some men have to a) have a wife who always looks like a taut 20-year-old, and b) to try to control what she eats or use her imagined fatness to maintain power over her. (Maybe that's not what's going on in their relationship but when someone decribes a husband who scolds her--"uh, uh, uh"-- for what she eats as "supportive," red flags go up all over the place for me, having been in those kind of relationships myself.) Angry because the normal changes that a woman's body goes through during and after pregnancy are considered ugly and something to hide.

And before anyone goes into "she just wants to be healthy!" territory, weighing 116 and wanting to lose 10 pounds has fuck-all to do with "health".

As Harriet Brown at Feed Me! put this so well a few months ago, writing about Rachel Hunter's comment, "Who doesn't want to lose 20 pounds?":

This kind of fat trash talk is my least favorite. It's the equivalent of the air kiss, the baring of the throat by the subordinate animal. It's a social custom denoting (supposedly) good taste and submissive femininity. The words themselves aren't the point; it's the intention behind them. And the intension is to erase the self, to make yourself as small and thin and weak as possible.

On Tramps and Sweater Girls

She gets too hungry,
for dinner at eight
(Check!)

She loves the theater,
but doesnt come late
(Check!)

She'd never bother,
with people she'd hate
(You'd better believe it, sister!)

Thats why the lady is a tramp


Doesnt like crap games,
with barons and earls
(Heck, just put me in front of the quarter poker machine, I'm good.)

Wont go to harlem,
in ermine and pearls
(Who wears ermine anymore?)

Wont dish the dirt,
with the rest of those girls
(Well, maybe....)

Thats why the lady is a tramp



She loves the free,
fresh wind in her hair
(But those Santa Ana's gotta go!)

Life without care
Shes broke, but its ok
(Ramen noodles, baby!)

She hates california,
its cold and its damp
(We only wish!)

Thats why the lady is a tramp!

Probably the least sexist song ever sung by Frank Sinatra. The way it reads to me is "this woman plays by her own rules, and conventional people slut-shame her for it." Back in the days when popular lore dictated that Good Girls Don't (though that's been shown to mostly have been a myth), there were a number of things that would make a woman's morals suspect. Being divorced, being too independent, wearing "too much" makeup or form-fitting sweaters all were cause for clucking and castigation. The same sweaters that might have raised suspicion back in the fifties seem almost modest now (or maybe it was those rocket-nosecone bras that made them seem so risqué).

But the reason I actually led off this post with those lyrics was because I had been certain that in there somewhere was a line about "prefers cashmere to furs." And I wanted to write about cashmere. What the heck, I'm going to write about cashmere anyway.

My cashmere habit began many years ago on my first ski trip with my then-boyfriend-later-to-be-husband and his family. His mom loaned me a moth-eaten, navy cashmere crewneck sweater to wear as a warm layer underneath my flimsy parka. I couldn't believe something so light could be so warm! And soft! One taste, and I was hooked.


I've purchased several cashmere sweaters over the years of varying quality and price. While some might be more stylish, you can't beat Land's End cashmere pieces for a good quality/price ratio. Like all of their clothes, the workmanship is quite good, and their cashmere is soft, but sturdy and doesn't pill or look shabby after several wearings.


This cashmere cardigan in heather grey is one I wear quite frequently during the cooler months. The styling is classic, it goes with everything, and was a go-to layering piece for a majority of our Paris trip.







One of my favorite styles is a V-neck. I recently realized I didn't have one in a neutral color, and just ordered this one in black.








Bloomingdale's Sutton Studio line also offers some nice styles and colors, and if you can hold out until they go on sale in January, you can get some fantastic bargains.
Tunic, $169.





Wrap sweater, $149. (Love this color!!)

Beyond Yellow Ribbons

Maya's Granny, with her post "Our Boys" really got me thinking about how little impact the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have had on most of us who don't have a friend or loved one stationed there. Regardless of how you feel about these wars (I was personally for going to Afghanistan and vehemently opposed to invading Iraq), the bottom line is that our kids are over there, away from their families and too often in harm's way. While most American's now oppose staying in Iraq, the outcry just hasn't reached watershed volume. Maybe if more of us felt connected to the troops we'd all be going Cindy Sheehan on the Bush administration's and Congress' asses.



A cousin told me about AnySoldier.com a couple of years ago. It works this way: soldiers in the field sign up on the website and indcate what types of items that other soldiers in their unit need. You sign up to send that soldier a "care package" with those items, and they will distribute to those in their unit who need. You can also send letters, since apparently some soldiers don't get much mail.



This seemed to me like a much more concrete way to show support for our kids (and they are mostly kids) who are over there putting their lives on hold and on the line in service to us. I've signed up and will be sending my first care package this weekend. It seems like the least I can do.

Une femme Weighs In...

...on the Sex and the City Wedding Dress Brouhaha


Yesterday several blogs including the Esteemed Manolo featured pictures of Sarah Jessica Parker in a wedding dress from the filming of the "Sex and the City" movie.

Comments included the words "dessicated", "veiny", "haggard", "needs a sandwich", etc. I'll admit that while I joined a bit in the pile-on (remarking that often we older broads look better with a few extra pounds).

I'll also admit all of this has been bothering me a bit, so here are my thoughts, in no particular order:

I think a lot of the initial shock of these pictures is that we're not used to seeing images of women (especially women past their 20's) that haven't been airbrushed or photoshopped or filmed throught a gauze lens. She probably looks like most women of her age and weight would look. How refreshing that she hasn't Botoxed or plastic-surgeried herself into looking like an alien! How many of us past the age of 35 don't have a bit more sag in the bosom or droop in the undercarriage?

People who might take umbrage when someone refers to Kate Winslett as a "porker," are using words like "shrivelled"; how is this any different? Maybe SJP has overexercised herself into this state, or maybe this is just her natural weight. The thing is, we don't know and making that judgment is just as incorrect as assuming that every woman over a size 8 sits in front of the TV eating Cheetos all day.

I will concur that the design of the gown is probably not the most flattering choice. It's definitely in character with Carrie Bradshaw's style sense, and that's probably what they were going for. (Not liking the red lipstick either.) But like the Fug Girls, if we're going to pile on, let's have it be about the fashion choices and not about the body that's wearing them.

/rant