what i wore

ELLE magazine has been running a fashion story contest called "Love, Loss and What I Wore" since September. The deadline is this Saturday. So in my usual procrastinating style, I just finished the draft. Here goes. 

I was about six-years old when I became an extra on Soul Train. Donning a different pair of my mom's high heels for every episode, I strut my stuff all over our living room until I was out of breath. That's what I meant when I said I was an "extra." I hope you weren't just wracking your brain for memories of the little white girl shaking it with the best of them. I was shaking it on the other side of the screen. 

My entire ensemble typically consisted of a sideways ponytail, red lipstick, my New Kids on the Block or Strawberry Shortcake nightgown and her shoes. My mom had a collection of high heels in every color, style and textile imaginable. Green crocodile, red patent leather, navy blue suede, tan calfskin, all on the tallest of pins. I can still picture them lined up in her closet, just begging to be worn--and flung across the room for my big finale. They were magnificent. And they personified my visions of the perfect woman--beautiful, cool and interesting. Her shoes were the Holy Grail of grown-up attire. I couldn't slip my tiny feet into them fast enough. 

Dancing in front of Soul Train wasn't about putting on a performance for anyone. Though obviously I called my family into the room to witness the shoe-flinging finale a time or two. I loved to dance, but my real enthusiasm stemmed from the joy of pretending I was her.  When I wobbled around in her shoes, I imagined being the cool girl whom everyone wanted to dance with. In my young eyes, two-toned stilettos and Obsession perfume went a long way in making that happen. 

One day I realized that my mom had thrown away her collection of long-since worn high heels. I couldn't believe it. Had she not anticipated that my feet would grow to exactly her size? Did she think I would turn my nose up at a vintage collection of footwear that carried her from disco nights into motherhood? How wrong she was. I would give anything for those shoes. One, it would save me a hell of a lot of money in my wardrobe budget. But more importantly, it would mean the world to finally walk in them as my own grown-up version of the woman I always wanted to be.

status anxiety and other foibles

The good news is that I lived through last week's illness. The bad news is that in all my lethargy I started feeling really down on myself for not accomplishing enough. I know I should cut myself a break for the past few days, considering I was dramatically laid out upon death's door. But even when I'm perfectly healthy, I shudder at the amount of time I waste between projects. Not that I technically need to be producing anything else, but I feel guilty when I don't write or do something for an entire day. What is that about? Why am i putting this pressure on myself?

I've been re-reading Alain de Botton's Status Anxiety and realizing that it's quite likely I'm suffering from this. The more I see other people accomplishing, the more pressure I feel to succeed. The logical part of my brain recognizes the futility. The other is busy using disparaging adjectives to describe my lackluster efforts. I think part of it is because I always imagined I'd have done something significant by 25. That number is completely arbitrary, but my younger self thought that age seemed far enough away to have time to make my mark. Well, 25 came and went, and I haven't done whatever it is I thought I was going to do that was going to set the world aflame. How incredibly disappointing. Of course I wouldn't be disappointed if I hadn't set myself up for such a letdown in the first place. Defining the "thing" might have helped, too. 

From the time I started school, I was driven. But being driven as a student is not the same thing as being driven in the real world. Adults forgo sleep and seem to have less time for amusing high jinks. I always suspected this was the case and hid within the walls of academia for as long as possible. But almost three years out of grad school, I've since encountered people with so much passion and determination in their various fields that they seem almost other-worldly--sometimes in a good way and sometimes not. I envy the drive, but i've always felt frightened by some of the fervor to make things happen for the sake of "being successful." This is what I want to avoid. No matter how much anxiety I feel over my own lack of flame-lighting accomplishments, I would hate to think that I'd sacrifice my happiness to measure up to some warped, pre-conceived notion of success that probably isn't even wholly mine in the first place. Of course, this is exactly what I'm doing. How tragic it is that we all seem to do just the things we try so hard to avoid. 

No more. It's time to redirect my attention. Even on my best days, I'm not curing cancer. I could feel pretty badly about that if I really wanted to, but what would be the point? It's just about as ridiculous as comparing my worth to the successes of anyone else. But can I stop? Maybe. In the meantime, if everyone else could just slow down and stop being so damn ambitious, that would really help my self-esteem.

a follicular sigh of relief

Anja Rubik (lady's got dynamite hair)

The day has arrived. I'm going back to blonde. Of course, I also woke up this morning with a possible case of H1N1. I hope I'm kidding, but I feel like death warmed over. I'm sure I look even worse thanks to my dark tresses, which have faded from "Eva Mendes" to "weather-girl-from-Ohio" in a month (obviously incredibly flattering).

Nothing will stop me. I don't care if I have to crawl to the appointment, I can't live another moment with brown hair. In fact, I suspect this illness is actually a direct result of the last 34 days lived inside a very boring-looking version of myself. I really don't know what I was thinking. All I can say in my defense is that sometimes you have to do things to know what doesn't work. I shall cross off "brunette" from the ol' list. 

To all of you who said it looked good, your lies and unconditional love were much appreciated.

catcallers

 

Daria Werbowy (note: my outfit looked nothing like this.)

The other day I threw on a pair of cut-offs, a loose tank and a cardigan to go run some errands. I paired them with chunky heels, but in no way was my ensemble beckoning for male attention. Yet as it seems, any amount of leg can send the message, "please, speak inappropriately to me. This is just what I was hoping for when I got dressed this morning." 

Consider this a PSA to the portion of the male population who catcall: women rarely find this anything but offensive.

First of all, it's embarrassing. You're making overtures at a busy intersection. Now everyone within a 20-meter radius has ears perked to see what all the fuss is about and you're using descriptors I'm not sure are even appropriate for a men's magazine. I've had less awkward interactions on a first date, and at least for that I didn't have a 15-person audience. All i wanted to do was go get some groceries. It's more than I bargained for at ten in the morning. 

Secondly, it's not charming or original. Men who try to pick up women in broad daylight, in an intersection, typically have two lines that they start with. Either A) "Hey baby, you look real good." or B) "Where you going looking like that?" Thank you. Now I feel like a streetwalker. What am I supposed to say to that? I'll start with a polite thank you and high hopes that it will stop there. It rarely does. The reason is because the men who start these kinds of conversations are the same ones who are impervious to the I'm-not-interested-thank-you-and-good-day tone of the response. Maybe the secret is not to respond at all. But then I feel badly, like I'm the one being rude to this nice man who just wants to brighten my day by telling me what a gift I am to the world. If only that were the case.

Here's what usually happens. I say thank you and it's perceived as The In. "If she said 'thank you' then she must want me to continue charming her with my monosyllabic overtures," is what I imagine the internal monologue sounds like of my new friend. Typically the exchange then becomes more aggressive. He wants to know where I'm going and if he can accompany me there. He starts walking closer. And when it becomes apparent that I'm really not interested, out comes Mr. Hyde. Where my suitor was once complimentary and jovial, sensing rejection, he becomes surly and a bit scary. This is usually when I tell him "I'm so sorry, I'm in such a hurry," and skip into a brisk stride.

Maybe this one is just me, but I find my most startling come-ons happen early in the day. I haven't even had any coffee, sir, and you want to share your fantasies with me in front of Safeway? I understand that men think about sex a lot, and the Internet has provided many a forum for instant gratification. but away from your computer screen you cannot interact with live human beings this way. It's completely disrespectful. 

Or am I missing something? Are there some women who actually enjoy this attention? Am I being too harsh? Should I just take it for what it is? A compliment, albeit a slightly alarming one. I don't know.  

My dad's take on the whole matter: "Oh honey, one day men won't notice you at all and it will probably make you sad. In the meantime, buy some mace." I guess he's right. Problem solved.

living with the awful truth that we are not as cool as we'd like other people to think we are*

Image via NYmag.com

I've been experiencing a bit of angst with Facebook lately. Not with the actual platform, but with all the banal and truly unnecessary updates of my fellow users. While thinking it might be rude to de-friend certain offenders, I've found that hiding their profiles limits my daily annoyance. Still I've gotten to the point where I've considered canceling my account entirely.

A big part of my distress lies in the impression I have that there are quite a few people taking on and broadcasting hobbies and interests for the sole purpose of garnering accolades. We live in a society where our tiniest achievements can be shared with the stroke of a key. Because of this, there seems to be a motivation to do more than ever, and a greater opportunity to be recognized by others. In gentler times, this overt attention-seeking might have been labeled bragging. But because we do it electronically, and not by carrier pigeon, it's not deemed as offensive. 

I disagree. Can you imagine if every time you wanted to tell people how well you did in a race, you had to attach it to a bird and send it off? It would be ridiculous. People would think you were a pretty self-centered cad for assuming we're interested in whatever message your bird is delivering fifteen times a day. (Feel free to use this metaphor as a litmus test for sharing your latest news)

All I'm urging is that everyone should just do what they want, because they actually want to do it, not because it makes you look cool or you're seeking validation for your endeavors, or because someone else already gave it the seal of approval. And maybe, just once, be quiet about it. If you're doing something because you love it, it will feel rewarding whether you're congratulated for it or not. So relax, and stop updating your Facebook status with fervent pleas for attention. 

*That's a band or an album name. I'm not sure. either way, I can't take credit for it, but it's one of my favorite statements.