Tag Archives: Society

November 4, 2010 · 9:33 AM

On Owning It

I’m 26 years old, and yet I had two costumes for Halloween weekend.

And I don’t even like Halloween very much.

On Friday at work I dressed as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.  I was Michelangelo, for obvious, husband-related reasons.  My entire team dressed up and we actually won a contest for Best Cube Decoration.  We made our cubicle aisle into a sewer.

Allow me to illustrate:

That is a pizza box on the right.  We were detailed.  And that is why we are the proud owners of a $100 gift card to Chili’s.  Yes, Chili’s.

We quickly did some research to discover the Chili’s gift card would also work at Macaroni Grill or Maggianos.  Needless to say, we were all relieved.

A few things to note:

1.  I have nunchucks.
2.  I have a cardboard shell.
3.  Splinter is in life-size poster form.

Clearly you can’t win contests by doing things half-way.

On Saturday evening Mike and I went to two parties, and I was dressed as a banana.  Mike was a sock monkey.  We both thought this was hilarious until we showed up at the first party and we were the only people in costume.

Later some other people showed up in costume, but I hardly consider a kitten-ears headband a costume when I am literally inside a polyester banana.

As we were driving to the second party, it occurred to me that this humiliation might happen again.  Not in the same way, since we knew everyone at the next event would be in costume, but in the sense that my costume was decidedly funny, and I knew every other woman’s costume would be decidedly whorish.

After we parked, I turned to Mike in the car and said, “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of everyone being ‘the sexy something’ and me being the not-even-remotely attractive fruit.”

He didn’t hesitate, “You need to walk in there and OWN IT.  Your costume is hilarious and so much more fun than the cliché “hot nurse” or whatever the girls are wearing tonight.  OWN IT.”

So that’s what I did.  I walked in and struck a pose and people totally responded.  They laughed, and I realized that was much more fun than looking trampy on Halloween.

This isn’t a judgement on those who look sexy on Halloween — it’s totally cultural and virtually everyone does it.  I just discovered that men don’t corner the market on silly rather than slutty.

In fact, you could argue that my costume was a little sexy-banana-ish, considering I was wearing black leggings and knee-high boots.  However, when one realizes my costume came from Pottery Barn Kids, it loses its sex appeal significantly.

Now that I know I am no longer afraid to be a food paired with an animal, the possibilities are endless.  Horse and carrot?  Cow and grass?  Elephant and peanut?

Bring it on.

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June 23, 2010 · 3:00 AM

Fit for a King

From the age of 13 to 15 I wished beyond anything else that I could marry Prince William.  Yes, he was very cute in those days, but his being cute wasn’t nearly as attractive as his being royal.  I used to imagine the People magazine cover of our engagement and our soon-to-be wedding.  Laugh all you want, but Kate Middleton did nothing but prove that my fantasy wasn’t far from reality (just…not for me).

I had an entire wall of posters of him, postcards of his face from friends who visited the UK, and teen magazine tear-outs analyzing his moppy hair.  I even wrote a three-page letter to his fan club, which ranks among the most embarrassing acts of my entire life.

Needless to say, I developed an obsession with all things British-royalty.  The palaces, the houses in the country, the clothing, the peacock hats pinned to the sides of heads, the wealth, the formality, the etiquette, the travel.  But nothing held the same fantastical appeal as the creme de le creme: royal weddings.

Remember Diana’s?  I don’t.  I wasn’t alive.  But the pictures — my word, the pictures — showcase the over-the-top grandeur of it all.  It wasn’t their fault; as my friend Siri appropriately noted, “Diana’s wedding fell victim to the ’80s.” 

Look no further than her sleeves to understand why:

It’s madness.  She looks like she was swallowed whole by a pillow.

The entire wedding party is lost in a sea of fluff.  The wrings of flowers on the girls’ hair only causes further chaos.

All of this is freshly brought to mind because of the style triumph that was Sweden’s Crown Princess Victoria’s wedding last Saturday.  It was elegant, refined, opulent and undeniably royal (despite her marrying a commoner — gasp!).

My opinion of Swedes has skyrocketed due to the gorgeous representation of the people by their royals.

Look at the joyful bride and groom:

Not only are they both gorgeous, but their clothes are picture perfect.  She wore an off-the-shoulder, age-appropriate (she’s 32) cream-colored silk gown designed by Pär Engsheden.  He donned an undecorated white-tie tuxedo with tails.

What most impresses me, I believe, is that on the one day when she could have worn head-to-toe five-carat diamonds, sapphires and family jewels, she instead chose to wear the cameo tiara her mother wore on her wedding day in 1976.

Don’t get me wrong — it’s still stunning.  But it’s less obvious and ostentatious than the typical crown associated with royalty.  After all, what does she have to prove?  We know she’s going to be Queen; no need to flaunt it, I suppose.

What’s amazing about her groom, Daniel Westling, is that he was her personal trainer.  Not royal.  Not a billionaire.  Do you see why I employed fantasies of a girl from Seattle marrying the future King of England?

Question: can you imagine being the mother of a commoner marrying into royalty?  I honestly can’t conceive of a more daunting wardrobe situation.  The entire royal world will be attending your son’s wedding to an actual princess, 500 million people will be watching on TV, and you have to walk in there as the only woman without a crown.  Ouch.

I’m sad to report that Westling’s mother failed to rise to the occasion.  She’s wearing a dress any mother-of-the-groom could find at Moms, Maids and More.

After the ceremony, the bride lifted her 16-foot train and looped it around her arm so she could hit the dance floor.  It occurs to me that this seems like a hassle, and certainly a lot of fabric to keep track of, but then again royals don’t bustle their dresses.  They have giant trains for a reason — they’re royalty.

The handsome duo didn’t disappoint for their version of a rehearsal dinner, either.  A gala dinner and concert were given for the couple the evening prior to the wedding, and the results speak for themselves:

Impeccable.  I can’t help but note that the groom has to be the most modern-looking man to become a prince in recent memory.  Those glasses and that hair make him look as if he’s partner of a Manhattan design studio.

Clearly I’m already toe-tapping in anticipation of the next royal wedding, between my former flame and his commoner girlfriend.  It’s only a matter of time before he pops the question, and only a matter of taste whether their wedding will receive the Words Become One nod of approval.

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June 9, 2010 · 3:00 AM

Barely There

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you want some decent people watching, look no further than the Seattle Symphony.

Last Sunday my in-loves took us to Benaroya Hall to celebrate my sister-in-love’s birthday.  Shortly after arriving, I was absent-mindedly sipping my champagne while silently eyeballing every outfit in the room.  Outfit?  That’s too generous a term; some of these women were in capris and Tevas.

I saw two young women (the only other people under 30, we noticed) in super-short dresses, bare legs and high heels.  I immediately recoiled at the display of flesh.  It’s 2PM, I thought; where are their nylons?

I was in a gray sweater dress with brown boots to the knee, and had worn nude nylons so I wouldn’t be flashing my thighs to the over-60 crowd on a Sunday afternoon.  I didn’t even think twice about it.  So as soon as I saw these women sans-pantyhose, I expressed my surprise.

The birthday girl quickly pointed out to me that not everybody wears pantyhose; in fact, she confirmed that she didn’t think she even owned any. 

This nonchalance provoked the obvious question:  are nylons necessary?  Is it just my East Coast upbringing that forces me into such propriety?

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t think of many times I had seen people my age in nylons.  The recent exception being last fall’s trend of dark black tights with any type of boot, bootie, or pump.  Aside from that, who wears them?  Am I being modest, or just 150 years old?

Before Rachel and I could discuss further, her husband interrupted us to tell us to stop saying “hose.”  “It sounds like you’re saying ho’s,” he said, looking around the room, “and you shouldn’t say ho’s at the symphony.”

Fair point — after all, the vast number of words for this sheer, leg-hugging fabric is mind-boggling.  Nylons/pantyhose/stockings/tights/leggings…and I’m sure they’re not interchangeable at all, but we toss them around like the underwear they are, regardless of accurate terminology.

As far back as I can remember, my mom insisted on tights for every occasion, for something as regular as church to formal family holidays.  They were always uncomfortable, always protested by me, and always required by her.  “Don’t you want to dress like a lady?” she’d ask.

Even when I was a teenager living on the West Coast, she would stare, horrified, as I left for the Homecoming dance in an above-the-knee dress without stockings.  But no one in Seattle ever wore nylons, so why would I? 

And yet here I am at 26-years-old pulling on my nylons to go to the symphony.  Apparently the stodgy East Coast formality stuck.

But midway through the show I got a run.  A huge run.  I leaned over to Rachel and informed her that my nylons were running so fast they could win a race.

Suddenly it occurred to me that getting a run takes all of the modesty and tastefulness I associate with nylons and rips them in two faster than the fabric itself.  Could anything look less classy? 

The run started at mid-thigh but by intermission was straight through my knee and headed for my ankle.  Mike looked at me like, seriously?  Don’t you carry a spare?

No.  No, I do not.  Instead I stood like a child preventing an accident:  one leg tucked behind the other out of desperation.

As soon as the performance concluded and we had been seated at The Brooklyn for happy hour, I dashed to the ladies room (the irony!) and dumped my nylons in the garbage. 

I am totally convinced that God had a hearty laugh at my expense as the woman who judged naked legs at Benaroya ended up sitting at a bar with bare thighs at The Brooklyn.

Update 7/26/11:  I rest my case.  Hosiery is back.

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