On a recent visit to Urban Outfitters, I felt like I was on a walk down memory lane, the 90's Grunge Edition. There, in red plaid flannel shirts, Doc Martens boots, Nirvana t-shirts, and oversized, tattered sweaters were my college-aged self, only repackaged for children born in the 90's. I literally had clothing in my closet older than these children! It's a bit jarring, but I guess that everything old IS new again.
Nostalgia isn't always bad, but it's not always good. For instance, this past week, sexism was back on display and in our living rooms with the Ode d'booty on display at MTV's Video Music Awards (VMAs) where Nicki Minaj and a troop of strip club trained back up dancers dry-humped the stage whilst showing off their...assets? Not to be outdone, even Beyonce, with her young daughter in the front row, sang surrounded by a dozen female dancers lying on their backs, with their legs thrust into the air and spread eagle followed by synchronized pelvic thrusting, like some sort of XXX version of a Busby Berkeley musical. And while Beyonce is often referred to as an empowering female, to be admired for her body of work as well as her physical body, no matter how many times her stage set spells out "Feminist" in 20 foot neon letters, her placement as a feminist icon is difficult to digest when she never seems to be wearing pants! In fact, there were lots of pants-less strong women honored at the VMAs, with Taylor Swift, all seven feet of her, walked the red carpet in something that looked like a romper you'd put on your one-year-old. Jessie J. also got the "no pants" memo, leaving Ariana Grande with her high ponytail and knee-high sequined gogo boots looking like Margaret Thatcher compared to the other ladies. What happened, MTV? You wanted another Miley/Robin Thicke moment so desperately that you decided to turn the stage into a strip club? But, let's be real, music videos are about the shock value. The number of YouTube views and they hype, which means skin (female, primarily). Video directors, in league with music labels, want buzz so that means giving the people what they want, or telling them what they want. And it's obvious that they don't want feminism.
Not to be outdone, the 66th Primetime Emmy Awards also did their part to take feminism back to the Dark Ages, or at least back to the time of Mad Men, when the president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences had Emmy Award-winning actress, Sofia Vergara, basically shut her mouth and stand up on a rotating platform, looking pretty whilst he tended to the manly task of explaining stuff using big words that pretty, dumb ladies can't possibly understand!
Still feeling nostalgic for days gone by, well then let's take a trip to Ferguson, Missouri where an over-policed, majority-black, community is still reeling from the violent shooting death of an unarmed black teenager by a while police officer. Those protesting the killing of Michael Brown took their cause to the streets of Ferguson where they were met by police in military gear complete with assault rifles, hurling teargas at American taxpayers who were exercising their First Amendment right to assemble. It all felt so 1960s that I could hear Martha and the Vandellas singing "Dancing in the Streets"! When the local police are more occupying force with an inability to distinguish between the good people who love their community and the looters who seek to destroy that community, then something's got to change before another black family loses another black son.
But can things ever truly change? Can the community of Ferguson and the police learn to trust each other? Can women learn to rely on our talents and not our tookus to get noticed? I wish I knew the answers to these questions, but for now, I only know that I have a pair of steel-toed Doc Marten boots to dust off and I'm wondering if they'll go with my Calvin Klein jacket - I'm all for nostalgia but there's no need to go overboard!
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Friday, September 20, 2013
The Saddest Place on Earth: Why designer capsule collections and fast fashion must stop
So I spent a few minutes at a local Target this morning picking through the racks of their latest designer collaboration, this time with Phillip Lim, whose 3.1 Phillip Lim line has garnered high praise and awards from critics and consumers alike. Lim's aesthetic is refined urban street chic. His take on the motorcycle jacket shows restraint while also adhering to the womanly curves of its wearer. Prices range from $150 for a t-shirt to $1700 for a coat. In fashion terms, Lim is affordable. Which is just one of the reasons that we, the hoi poloi, have flocked to Target, H&M, and Zara in droves when a designer, such as Lim, goes slumming with a capsule collection for these fast fashion outlets.
As soon as I walked into Target, the Phillip Lim display was front and center, with ladies apparel that included elliptical-hemmed tanks, belted Burberry-inspired trench coats, floral collage vests/jackets/dresses, and black pebble-grained tote bags that looked like downmarket replicas of Lim's luxury version of the bag - all modestly priced. There were also some pieces for men, including black high-top sneakers, camouflage tees and sweatshirts, and button down dress shirts. It was all pretty sad - designer duds under florescent lighting. While I walked the rest of this parade route of sad fashion, a mother and her teenage son entered the Phillip Lim maze. She was trying on one of the trench coats, which was clearly too large for her, so I mentioned that I had seen some smaller sizes a couple of racks over from us. She thanked me, and went on to tell me about her experience on the opening day at one of these Target designer collaborations down in her hometown of Miami, Florida. The woman's leg was in a cast at the time, and as she limped along with some of the designer items in her shopping cart, a young woman approached her and snatched two items from our hobbled friend. It was a feeding frenzy! We parted, and, just then, the jagged sobs from a toddler long past their nap time rung out behind me, and I knew that it was time to go.
I made my way out to my car, feeling ill at ease, and I couldn't understand why a little fast fashion was having such a negative effect on me. I started to go through my mental catalog of favorite fashion memories. As a little girl, I would spend hours flipping through Vogue magazine, mesmerized by the clothes. By the time I was a teenager, fashion magazines were where I spent most of my disposable income. I imagined myself in those body-conscious Donna Karan dresses, or kitted out in head-to-toe Givenchy Rive Gauche, with a soundtrack of Grace Jones' "Slave to the Rhythm". I had Haute Couture dreams on a Gap budget, but that was OK. A girl can dream, and that was the great gift of fashion then and now.
There's a wonderful documentary about Yves Saint Laurent and there's a scene with the wondrous actress Catherine Deneuve doing her final fittings for her everyday suits at the designer's atelier. And while the conversation between Ms. Deneuve and the team at Yves Saint Laurent touches on chickens and hens and breeding, La Deneuve speaks on the joys of the caress of silk on the skin, specifically the silk of the skirts and dresses from Yves Saint Laurent. Fashion of this caliber is special. And even though I choose to spend my dollars on groceries and other daily essentials and not a pair of $800 designer shoes, I don't want luxury fashion to climb down from its high place.
Years ago on my very first trip to Paris during an uncharacteristically frigid week in December between Christmas and New Year's Day, my friend, Jenn, and I took an early morning stroll and passed the Givenchy store. It was closed, but I still insisted on her taking a photo of me in front of the store. This place was like a temple of fashion and my joy was just in seeing these pieces of tremendous beauty, not in possessing them. So, for the Phillip Lims out there, I'm going to pass on the fast fashion and the collaborations, and stick with the fantasy.
As soon as I walked into Target, the Phillip Lim display was front and center, with ladies apparel that included elliptical-hemmed tanks, belted Burberry-inspired trench coats, floral collage vests/jackets/dresses, and black pebble-grained tote bags that looked like downmarket replicas of Lim's luxury version of the bag - all modestly priced. There were also some pieces for men, including black high-top sneakers, camouflage tees and sweatshirts, and button down dress shirts. It was all pretty sad - designer duds under florescent lighting. While I walked the rest of this parade route of sad fashion, a mother and her teenage son entered the Phillip Lim maze. She was trying on one of the trench coats, which was clearly too large for her, so I mentioned that I had seen some smaller sizes a couple of racks over from us. She thanked me, and went on to tell me about her experience on the opening day at one of these Target designer collaborations down in her hometown of Miami, Florida. The woman's leg was in a cast at the time, and as she limped along with some of the designer items in her shopping cart, a young woman approached her and snatched two items from our hobbled friend. It was a feeding frenzy! We parted, and, just then, the jagged sobs from a toddler long past their nap time rung out behind me, and I knew that it was time to go.
I made my way out to my car, feeling ill at ease, and I couldn't understand why a little fast fashion was having such a negative effect on me. I started to go through my mental catalog of favorite fashion memories. As a little girl, I would spend hours flipping through Vogue magazine, mesmerized by the clothes. By the time I was a teenager, fashion magazines were where I spent most of my disposable income. I imagined myself in those body-conscious Donna Karan dresses, or kitted out in head-to-toe Givenchy Rive Gauche, with a soundtrack of Grace Jones' "Slave to the Rhythm". I had Haute Couture dreams on a Gap budget, but that was OK. A girl can dream, and that was the great gift of fashion then and now.
There's a wonderful documentary about Yves Saint Laurent and there's a scene with the wondrous actress Catherine Deneuve doing her final fittings for her everyday suits at the designer's atelier. And while the conversation between Ms. Deneuve and the team at Yves Saint Laurent touches on chickens and hens and breeding, La Deneuve speaks on the joys of the caress of silk on the skin, specifically the silk of the skirts and dresses from Yves Saint Laurent. Fashion of this caliber is special. And even though I choose to spend my dollars on groceries and other daily essentials and not a pair of $800 designer shoes, I don't want luxury fashion to climb down from its high place.
Years ago on my very first trip to Paris during an uncharacteristically frigid week in December between Christmas and New Year's Day, my friend, Jenn, and I took an early morning stroll and passed the Givenchy store. It was closed, but I still insisted on her taking a photo of me in front of the store. This place was like a temple of fashion and my joy was just in seeing these pieces of tremendous beauty, not in possessing them. So, for the Phillip Lims out there, I'm going to pass on the fast fashion and the collaborations, and stick with the fantasy.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Is That a Hangnail? Or, Why Flip Flops Are for the Beach, Not the Boardroom!
Well, with summer more than half over, I think that it's safe to say that this summer officially belongs to the flip flop. Congratulations!!! That something so simple as a thin piece of rubber with a couple of straps on top would represent a revolution in footwear is quite spectacular. The flip flop's territory has been rapidly expanding beyond the beach, the shower and the pool for the past few years. It's been seen at the White House and in other Washington, DC corridors of power, including the Capitol, the Fed, and the State Department.
It started innocently enough with the summer interns who, unused to suits and ties and pantyhose and pumps, wore the lowly flip flop as a status symbol of their youth during their commutes to and from the office. Standing on the Metro platform on a muggy summer morning, I've heard the slap-slap as their rubber soles smacked the backs of their feet and I've watched, with just the littlest bit of glee, as these "slappers", as I've termed them, ding their exposed toes on the metal poles inside of the rail cars. And while the abundant smell of feet on a closed-in, over-crowded train car may sound appealing to some, nobody likes the string of broken Metro escalators flip flops often leave in their wake after they've slipped under the ever-present yellow cone plate found at the top and bottom of the escalator. In a recent news story, Metro reported that approximately three dozen pairs of flip flops annually are chomped on by Metro's escalators. Think about that the next time you're forced to hike up the Dupont Circle escalator stairs in 114-degree heat!!
Right now you're thinking about all of the slappers you know, aren't you? Maybe you're thinking of the account manager who sits in the cube across from yours and who slap-slaps their day away on Casual Fridays or everyday of the week during summer. Or maybe it's that woman on Sunday morning who insists on sporting her Havaianas at Mass and slap-slaps down the aisle to Communion. OK, so Jesus wore sandals, but that was so first century Middle East!
In a lot of ways, the rise of the flip flop can be seen as indicative of the casual vibe that has a death grip on this country. In homes where we've torn down the wall that literally separated the place where we eat from the place where we sit and watch TV, and where living rooms are now optional, casual is comfortable and comfortable's what sells. In restaurants, we've gone from white linen table cloths and "madame" to "fast casual" and "you guys."
But the power of the flip flop also has to do with the ever-changing boundaries of what is and is not considered appropriate. Once iron-clad and seemingly fixed, standards of appropriate dress have become relative. Back when my parents met, a first date meant a jacket and tie for my dad and a skirt, blouse, sweater for my mom. By the time I arrived at college in the early '90s, though, all that had changed. The first date was ditched for the hook up and "hanging out," and t-shirts and jeans and flip flops became our uniform. It was my generation that brought grunge into the workplace, and then deconstructed the workplace during the dot-com era, decimating the organizational chart and chain of command, and, that staple of the Old Guard, the corporate dress code. The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit was kicked out and the flip flop moved up. At the core of this sartorial dust up was a simple truth - that we should be judged in the workplace by the jobs we do and not the clothes we wear. It's a noble truth, but it's time to tame the toe tyranny and put those ten little piggies back inside of a closed-toe shoe!
I'm just saying:)
It started innocently enough with the summer interns who, unused to suits and ties and pantyhose and pumps, wore the lowly flip flop as a status symbol of their youth during their commutes to and from the office. Standing on the Metro platform on a muggy summer morning, I've heard the slap-slap as their rubber soles smacked the backs of their feet and I've watched, with just the littlest bit of glee, as these "slappers", as I've termed them, ding their exposed toes on the metal poles inside of the rail cars. And while the abundant smell of feet on a closed-in, over-crowded train car may sound appealing to some, nobody likes the string of broken Metro escalators flip flops often leave in their wake after they've slipped under the ever-present yellow cone plate found at the top and bottom of the escalator. In a recent news story, Metro reported that approximately three dozen pairs of flip flops annually are chomped on by Metro's escalators. Think about that the next time you're forced to hike up the Dupont Circle escalator stairs in 114-degree heat!!
Right now you're thinking about all of the slappers you know, aren't you? Maybe you're thinking of the account manager who sits in the cube across from yours and who slap-slaps their day away on Casual Fridays or everyday of the week during summer. Or maybe it's that woman on Sunday morning who insists on sporting her Havaianas at Mass and slap-slaps down the aisle to Communion. OK, so Jesus wore sandals, but that was so first century Middle East!
In a lot of ways, the rise of the flip flop can be seen as indicative of the casual vibe that has a death grip on this country. In homes where we've torn down the wall that literally separated the place where we eat from the place where we sit and watch TV, and where living rooms are now optional, casual is comfortable and comfortable's what sells. In restaurants, we've gone from white linen table cloths and "madame" to "fast casual" and "you guys."
But the power of the flip flop also has to do with the ever-changing boundaries of what is and is not considered appropriate. Once iron-clad and seemingly fixed, standards of appropriate dress have become relative. Back when my parents met, a first date meant a jacket and tie for my dad and a skirt, blouse, sweater for my mom. By the time I arrived at college in the early '90s, though, all that had changed. The first date was ditched for the hook up and "hanging out," and t-shirts and jeans and flip flops became our uniform. It was my generation that brought grunge into the workplace, and then deconstructed the workplace during the dot-com era, decimating the organizational chart and chain of command, and, that staple of the Old Guard, the corporate dress code. The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit was kicked out and the flip flop moved up. At the core of this sartorial dust up was a simple truth - that we should be judged in the workplace by the jobs we do and not the clothes we wear. It's a noble truth, but it's time to tame the toe tyranny and put those ten little piggies back inside of a closed-toe shoe!
I'm just saying:)
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Don't Diss the Clogs: One Woman's Crusade Against the Agony of De-Feet!
Recently, celebrity shoe-meister Christian Louboutin announced from his 5-inch Mount Olympus that he detests clogs - I'm talking the shoes, not those pesky plumbing problems. For those not in the know, today's clogs are a far cry from the old wooden shoes your grandparents brought back from their trip to Holland. The clog is a rugged, comfortable piece of footwear - maybe not so stylish if you equate style with excruciatingly painful strutting about on sky-high stilts.
The Clog Nation - that's what I'm calling us - is a proud collection of smart, productive people with very comfortable feet. Turn on an episode of "Top Chef" and you'll see our legions proudly stomping around kitchens doing things with lamb and rosemary that will make you weep with joy. Not a foodie? Then take a trip to the nearest ER or your dentist's office and you'll see more of our number in their hospital white clogs. Want to get that new hairdo? Well while your stylist is giving you a cut and a blow-dry, you might want to check out their tootsies sporting the latest in clog fashion.
It took a long while, and many painful steps on blistered feet to make me a clog convert. At age 13, I got my first pair of heels. They were bright white and we bought them at Fayva, a purveyor of cheap and plentiful shoes. The occasion was my Confirmation, which required that I wear a white dress, and, hence, the white heels. I tried them on under the brassy, fluorescent store lights and made my first, tentative steps over to my mom, just like I was a one-year old taking my first steps all over again. I should've known, then, that my feet were in for one hell of a tough road. The shoes stayed in their box until the day of the Confirmation service. I was more excited about the shoes than the religious ceremony, but soon I was praying to God harder than I'd ever prayed before because those crappy white heels put the hurt on me, but good! After 3 hours in 3-inch heels I was more than happy to put those beasts back in the box, and I did, for a while.
But then I went to grad school and the heels came back - sky high platforms, stilettos, stacked-heel boots. I trucked throughout Boston on a closet full of Aldo shoes, even braving the icy, snowy sidewalks in uncomfortable and wobbly footwear. I looked fabulous - don't get me wrong! But the shin splints and Achilles tendon issues put a painful crimp in my style. Ever walked up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk-up with swollen feet crammed into 4-inch peep-toe pumps at the end of the night?
My "scared straight" moment occurred during a two-day conference after grad school. I was a member of the team running the conference, with an emphasis on "running." As the youngest staffer and the new hire, I was the gopher, pounding the boiling hot summertime Washington, DC pavements on every conceivable errand for my boss. And yes, I was in heels - silly, stupid 3-inch croc-embossed, black heels. By the end of the first day of the conference, minutes before I was to go home and soak my tired toes, I was, unexpectedly dispatched to take care of a top-priority last-minute item - bringing materials to the evening reception and dinner for the conference attendees. Oh, and I'd need to remain on-site until the dinner concluded. On my way over to the reception site, though, I passed a small shoe store. I'd passed this store several times, but that day I went in, and there, on the walls were the keys to my salvation - the ugliest shoe in the world. They had my size and as the salesman was spouting me the sales talking points, my feet and I were falling in love - a deep, undeniable love. I threw my heels in the trashcan and my life was changed forever.
My clogs and I have seen some amazing things - we've met Presidents of the United States, Secretaries of State, religious leaders, and various Senators and Congressmen. We've traveled the world, from Bangkok to Budapest. We've sailed the high seas, performed in concert halls, and chased after house cats. In short, my ugly shoes have opened up my world, freeing me from the toe tyranny of the legion of little French men who create absurd shoes for women. So, here's my personal challenge to Mr. Louboutin - go and live your life, do what you do every day, but do it wearing those ridiculous shoes that you create for us ladies. My clogs and I will be waiting to hear from you:) I'm just saying!
The Clog Nation - that's what I'm calling us - is a proud collection of smart, productive people with very comfortable feet. Turn on an episode of "Top Chef" and you'll see our legions proudly stomping around kitchens doing things with lamb and rosemary that will make you weep with joy. Not a foodie? Then take a trip to the nearest ER or your dentist's office and you'll see more of our number in their hospital white clogs. Want to get that new hairdo? Well while your stylist is giving you a cut and a blow-dry, you might want to check out their tootsies sporting the latest in clog fashion.
It took a long while, and many painful steps on blistered feet to make me a clog convert. At age 13, I got my first pair of heels. They were bright white and we bought them at Fayva, a purveyor of cheap and plentiful shoes. The occasion was my Confirmation, which required that I wear a white dress, and, hence, the white heels. I tried them on under the brassy, fluorescent store lights and made my first, tentative steps over to my mom, just like I was a one-year old taking my first steps all over again. I should've known, then, that my feet were in for one hell of a tough road. The shoes stayed in their box until the day of the Confirmation service. I was more excited about the shoes than the religious ceremony, but soon I was praying to God harder than I'd ever prayed before because those crappy white heels put the hurt on me, but good! After 3 hours in 3-inch heels I was more than happy to put those beasts back in the box, and I did, for a while.
But then I went to grad school and the heels came back - sky high platforms, stilettos, stacked-heel boots. I trucked throughout Boston on a closet full of Aldo shoes, even braving the icy, snowy sidewalks in uncomfortable and wobbly footwear. I looked fabulous - don't get me wrong! But the shin splints and Achilles tendon issues put a painful crimp in my style. Ever walked up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk-up with swollen feet crammed into 4-inch peep-toe pumps at the end of the night?
My "scared straight" moment occurred during a two-day conference after grad school. I was a member of the team running the conference, with an emphasis on "running." As the youngest staffer and the new hire, I was the gopher, pounding the boiling hot summertime Washington, DC pavements on every conceivable errand for my boss. And yes, I was in heels - silly, stupid 3-inch croc-embossed, black heels. By the end of the first day of the conference, minutes before I was to go home and soak my tired toes, I was, unexpectedly dispatched to take care of a top-priority last-minute item - bringing materials to the evening reception and dinner for the conference attendees. Oh, and I'd need to remain on-site until the dinner concluded. On my way over to the reception site, though, I passed a small shoe store. I'd passed this store several times, but that day I went in, and there, on the walls were the keys to my salvation - the ugliest shoe in the world. They had my size and as the salesman was spouting me the sales talking points, my feet and I were falling in love - a deep, undeniable love. I threw my heels in the trashcan and my life was changed forever.
My clogs and I have seen some amazing things - we've met Presidents of the United States, Secretaries of State, religious leaders, and various Senators and Congressmen. We've traveled the world, from Bangkok to Budapest. We've sailed the high seas, performed in concert halls, and chased after house cats. In short, my ugly shoes have opened up my world, freeing me from the toe tyranny of the legion of little French men who create absurd shoes for women. So, here's my personal challenge to Mr. Louboutin - go and live your life, do what you do every day, but do it wearing those ridiculous shoes that you create for us ladies. My clogs and I will be waiting to hear from you:) I'm just saying!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Don't Throw Away the Fat Clothes!
Last week, actor Seth Rogen, the gravely-voiced, fuzzy haired thespian from the House of Judd Apatow said that he needs his fat clothes back. Rogen, whose career centered on playing doughy slackers in such films as "Knocked Up" (doughy slacker impregnates hot girl), and "Funny People" (doughy slacker pursuing a career as stand-up comic), had recently shed some major LBs in preparation for his role in the reboot of the 1960s TV show, "The Green Hornet." As he made the rounds of various talk shows hawking the film, he was praised for his new and improved physique. In fact, it wasn't just the weight loss that people noticed. The formerly rumpled performer who had appeared in the past to resemble an unmade bed was cleaning up his act. His hair underwent a massive deforesting, going from matted, cranky curls of afro proportions to a sleek, close cut. His clothing selections changed, as well, with his usual nasty, wrinkled cord jacket and ironic graphic t-shirt upgraded to a fitted suit. He looked good and we all cheered. So what happened?
Rogen himself has always been very vocal about his weight and his reluctance to lose it: "I lost the weight for a role, but I don't know if I'll keep it off. That's the big question. I have a lot of tantrums. I want my food. I cry for no reason." While Rogen may have put a funny spin on it, a lot of us share his struggle. Going from fat to thin is more than physical, it's an intense emotional and psychological experience and one of the prime battlegrounds is your closet.
As you start to lose weight, it's the clothes in your closet that can serve as constant reminders of your former, fatter self. Some people do a massive closet purge, giving away all of their larger size items. Most people, though, will retain some of their plus-sized clothing items, pushing them way back in their closets, while buying new things in their smaller size. The result is a closet that has clothing in several sizes - fat, thin, and in-between. My own closet fits this model, but I've often wondered if my fat clothes have become my crutch. Look, I know we're in the middle of a recession and some of those items in my wardrobe have special meaning to me, but could they be doing me a mental disservice?
The ghosts of dress sizes past can really do a number on you, reminding you of that phantom fat person who dwelled inside of you. Here are some quick tips on what to do with those fat clothes:
Rogen himself has always been very vocal about his weight and his reluctance to lose it: "I lost the weight for a role, but I don't know if I'll keep it off. That's the big question. I have a lot of tantrums. I want my food. I cry for no reason." While Rogen may have put a funny spin on it, a lot of us share his struggle. Going from fat to thin is more than physical, it's an intense emotional and psychological experience and one of the prime battlegrounds is your closet.
As you start to lose weight, it's the clothes in your closet that can serve as constant reminders of your former, fatter self. Some people do a massive closet purge, giving away all of their larger size items. Most people, though, will retain some of their plus-sized clothing items, pushing them way back in their closets, while buying new things in their smaller size. The result is a closet that has clothing in several sizes - fat, thin, and in-between. My own closet fits this model, but I've often wondered if my fat clothes have become my crutch. Look, I know we're in the middle of a recession and some of those items in my wardrobe have special meaning to me, but could they be doing me a mental disservice?
The ghosts of dress sizes past can really do a number on you, reminding you of that phantom fat person who dwelled inside of you. Here are some quick tips on what to do with those fat clothes:
- KEEP those clothes that have deep emotional meaning to you. If the dress you had made in Thailand is too large for you, then buy a belt, have it altered, or put it in the back of the closet.
- GIVE AWAY those larger sized items that are no longer your taste and style.
- KEEP those crazy, super-expensive designer duds that you bought on a whim.
- GIVE AWAY those larger sized suits and career dresses to a group like Dress for Success as they always need gently used professional items for larger sizes.
- GIVE AWAY dress trousers, because it's difficult to alter them to fit your smaller self.
- KEEP skirts, as the waists can be taken in or let out as needed.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Forget the Fake, Let's Get Real
Tomas Maier may not be a household name, but as designer for luxury goods maker Bottega Veneta, his legendary bags have been popular prey for the designer knock-off industry. In a recent interview with The New Yorker, Maier caused a small stir when he denied that his goods were too expensive for middle class people to afford. In fact, he said that the middle class has "simply been trained to want too much stuff."
That last line really hit me, especially as I peruse Purse Mountain in my closet! We women of a certain age have all imagined ourselves, once or even twice, as a local Carrie Bradshaw knock-off, substituting her substantial sample-sized overstuffed wardrobes and Cosmopolitans for our hot-off-the-street fake Fendi bag and an asiago cheese bagel at Panera. And I'm sure one of us has spent a bit too long in the handbag haven that is T.J. Maxx - although I do stop short of calling myself a "Maxxinista", that's a little too close to Sandinista for my taste!
If I'm to follow the advice of Tomas Maier, then instead of dropping a few hundred dollars in a year on knock-off products that smell just a bit weird and that end up discarded, then I should, instead, save for the one I want the most and, once purchased, enjoy it.
I know, the men out there are rolling their eyes and wondering what's the big deal, I mean, it's a freakin' purse! But it's more than that. If I want something real but settle for something less, who's to say that this stops at purses?
Well, you have the final say!
If you settle for what you can get, but don't wait for what you really want, then ask yourself "why". Do you fear that no matter how hard you work, you'll never get to that mythical, magical land of "there."? Do you think that you're not worth it? Are you afraid that once you have that precious thing that it will be taken away from you, or destroyed, like Smeagol from "Lord of the Rings"?
I think that our purses are a metaphor for our lives. Does the inside of your purse resemble Fred Sanford's junkyard? Are movie ticket stubs from 1999 through 2010 living at the bottom of your handbag? Are you carrying a big bundle of backache in your overstuffed bag? Is there a Misfit Land of Purses festering at the bottom of your wardrobe?
Here's your assignment: take a voyage of discovery through your purses. Look at all of the purses that you own - inside and outside. You'll find forgotten treasures, as well as some highlights and low lights of your fashionable self, but the point of this is to ask yourself why you bought each of those bags, how you felt when you got it, and how it makes you feel now when you carry it (if you still carry it). Maybe Tomas Maier was right and we have been trained to want too much stuff. So forget the fake - it's time to get real!
I'm just saying:)
That last line really hit me, especially as I peruse Purse Mountain in my closet! We women of a certain age have all imagined ourselves, once or even twice, as a local Carrie Bradshaw knock-off, substituting her substantial sample-sized overstuffed wardrobes and Cosmopolitans for our hot-off-the-street fake Fendi bag and an asiago cheese bagel at Panera. And I'm sure one of us has spent a bit too long in the handbag haven that is T.J. Maxx - although I do stop short of calling myself a "Maxxinista", that's a little too close to Sandinista for my taste!
If I'm to follow the advice of Tomas Maier, then instead of dropping a few hundred dollars in a year on knock-off products that smell just a bit weird and that end up discarded, then I should, instead, save for the one I want the most and, once purchased, enjoy it.
I know, the men out there are rolling their eyes and wondering what's the big deal, I mean, it's a freakin' purse! But it's more than that. If I want something real but settle for something less, who's to say that this stops at purses?
Well, you have the final say!
If you settle for what you can get, but don't wait for what you really want, then ask yourself "why". Do you fear that no matter how hard you work, you'll never get to that mythical, magical land of "there."? Do you think that you're not worth it? Are you afraid that once you have that precious thing that it will be taken away from you, or destroyed, like Smeagol from "Lord of the Rings"?
I think that our purses are a metaphor for our lives. Does the inside of your purse resemble Fred Sanford's junkyard? Are movie ticket stubs from 1999 through 2010 living at the bottom of your handbag? Are you carrying a big bundle of backache in your overstuffed bag? Is there a Misfit Land of Purses festering at the bottom of your wardrobe?
Here's your assignment: take a voyage of discovery through your purses. Look at all of the purses that you own - inside and outside. You'll find forgotten treasures, as well as some highlights and low lights of your fashionable self, but the point of this is to ask yourself why you bought each of those bags, how you felt when you got it, and how it makes you feel now when you carry it (if you still carry it). Maybe Tomas Maier was right and we have been trained to want too much stuff. So forget the fake - it's time to get real!
I'm just saying:)
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