Outfit Post: The tyranny of the "bikini body"

Memorial Day weekend, 1981: I am seven years old. My parents are hosting a barbecue and have invited my grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and neighborhood friends. The air smells like roasting barbecue briquettes, daylilies, freshly cut grass and hot dogs.The rhythmic spurt-spurt-spurt of the sprinkler permeates the air. I am wearing an enticing two-piece yellow terry cloth bikini which ties around my neck, and my cousins and I shriek as we run through the needle-sharp spray of the sprinkler. My waist-long hair drips water down my back. I feel happy, unencumbered and free.

Flash forward to Memorial Day weekend, present day: I am 36 years old. My husband and three children chatter excitedly about going to the neighborhood pool. I have zero desire to go to the pool, because going to the pool means wearing my swimsuit in public. I stand in front of my dresser and try to calm myself down. I try on two-piece after two-piece, self-esteem plummeting in the process. Swimsuits lie tangled on the floor. My thighs seem to expand with each selection. My body takes up too much space. I am flabby and fat and all-together unacceptable. I feel like a failure.

Every summer, I go through the exact same ritual. I become obsessively focused on the notion of the perfect bikini body, an entity I am certain every woman possesses except for myself. The NY Times recently ran an article exploring the notion of the bikini body, examining the effect it has on fear-inspired marketing campaigns and as a symbol of physical perfection.

There's no way of figuring out when the phrase "bikini body" was first uttered or when its tyranny took hold. It's common knowledge that the two-piece as we know it was invented in 1946 by engineer Louis Réard who christened it after Bikini Atoll. The style became popular in the 50's and by the 80's was standard beachwear. As our culture increasingly enshrines physical perfection, the bikini has come to inspire dread and awe. It wasn’t always so. In the 1960s, when bellybutton-baring suits first became popular in America, “it was a youthful phenomenon definitely,” said Sarah Kennedy, the author of “The Swimsuit: A History of Twentieth-Century Fashions.” Then the high-fashion set and movie stars began to put on bikinis, and by the ’70s, she said, the bikini was “worn by all ages.”

And a few extra pounds didn’t disqualify anyone, considering the fitness revolution was still roughly a decade away. (The NY Times mentions that in the book there’s a 1940s photograph of a fresh-faced still-brunet Marilyn Monroe looking smashing in a two-piece, a roll of pale flesh at her midsection.)

Writes The Guardian's Laurie Penny:

When it finally became popular in the 1960s, the bikini was a symbol of physical liberation, of beautiful women reacting to the stern sexual prudery of previous decades by exposing as much skin to the sun as they pleased. Today, as with many iterations of the sexual emancipation rhetoric of the 1960s, wearing a bikini is no longer associated with pleasure and daring, but with anxiety, dieting rituals and joyless physical performance...The bikini body has become cultural shorthand for a moral standard of female perfection whereby any physical flaw should be regarded as a source of shame, an obstacle to collective fantasies of glamour and happiness.

When did  the bikini become the standard of all beauty? I'm going to theorize that the first Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues, published in 1964, had a lot to do with it. With that publication, swimsuits became explicitly linked with the standards of female desirability. Also, the Swimsuit Issue is published in the winter and had little to do with the reality of actual women being at the beach, let alone swimming, and a lot to do with unattainable goals.

"Bikini body" is the going code for "acceptable." It is always in bikinis that the tabloids feature the "best" and "worst" bodies. Type "bikini body" into Google and you get the following suggested searches:

bikini body workout
bikini body diet
bikini body tips
bikini body fast
quick bikini body

The bikini body has nothing to do with overall health, or fitness, or lifestyle. No, it's about shedding "winter weight" fast, before some arbitrary deadline known as "Bikini Season," at which point we're forced to confront a two-piece suit with, naturally, the requisite "bikini wax," and no trace of cold-weather pastyness. Jezebel argues that the "bikini body" craze goes so much deeper than fatism or fatphobia. It is part of our society's relentless insistence that a woman's body is not her own. It is an object to be criticized.  Our society seems to think that a woman wears a bikini not for herself, but for the public to decide her worthiness.

Will the world end tomorrow if I can't cram my butt into a bikini? I was going to ask Stephen Hawking, but, after some careful mathematical calculations, I was able to come up with the answer on my own: No. Does this mean that I still don't have days where I hate my thighs and stomach so much I want to carve them off of my body with a fillet knife? No. But I understand that those days will happen and that they really don't matter because there truly is NOTHING wrong with my body. I've put it through a lot in the past 36 years and it's stuck around and carried me through everything.

So my motto is this: Just be healthy. Eat things that are nutritionally good for you and exercise, but don't forget about delicious, delicious baked goods and gelato from Pacuigo. Don't deprive yourself of things to satisfy the warped and nonsensical views of people that see you as another bottomless pocket and empty head. 

Do what you want, eat what you want, wear what you want, and be who you want.

Now I ask you: How you deal with the pressure of the "bikini body?" Does wearing a swimsuit in public make you break out in a sweat? Do you avoid going to the beach, pool or lake because of this fear? Does wearing a swimsuit cause you to dread summer activities? And do you have a favorite swimsuit that makes you feel great about yourself?

Thrifted Gap chambray shirt: thrifted vintage dress; Old Navy belt; White Mountain sandals; TIKKR watch; Charming Charlie bracelet; Forever 21 necklace

Outfit Post: In which I wear a miniskirt, and commit a hideous fashion crime.

I am wearing a miniskirt today. I'm warning you at the beginning of this post in order to give you a moment to avert your eyes, and introduce the following: If you're over 35, a recent survey out of Britain reveals that no one wants to see you in a miniskirt. Period.

Yesterday my attention was directed towards a delightfully insane little survey regarding age-appropriate dressing, recently published in the Daily Mail (or the Daily Fail, as I prefer to call it.) If the results are to be believed, women over the age of 35 are committing fashion suicide if caught wearing a miniskirt. Quell horror! The study polled 2,000 women age 18 to 65 and found that "mini-skirts are a 'no-no' on anyone aged 35 or more," along with a slew of other cutoff dates, like no bikinis over 47 (unless you're Helen Mirren - when you look like this in a two-piece, you can do whatever the heck you please), no high heels over 51, and no leggings after 45. I might also mention that a similar study was covered by the Daily Mail back in 2007, though that study concurred that women over 28 are the perpetrators of fashion crimes. Apparently we've progressed a bit since then.

Caron Leckie, a nutritionist for Diet Chef (some sort of prepared-meals diet site, which sponsored the survey) told the Daily Mail, "It's up to individuals to choose when they should stop wearing certain items...Saying that, everyone wants to look the best they can and now is the prime time to get in shape for summer." Ugh. *eye roll* Leave it to a diet company to conduct a poll that has no other purpose than to make women feel worse about themselves.

Here's the full list of specific article of attire along with corresponding cut-off age:

* Bikini: 47
* Mini skirt: 35
* Stilettos: 51
* Belly button piercing: 35
* Knee high boots: 47
* Trainers: 44
* Leather trousers: 34
* Leggings: 45
* Ugg boots: 45
* Swimsuit: 61
* Tight vest: 44
* See-through chiffon blouse: 40
* Long hair: 53
* Ponytail: 51

Good lord. I audibly recoil at the mere thought of arbitrary rules restricting how women choose to dress and present themselves to the world. It's my belief that surveys like these play into the notion that women should cover up once they hit a certain number, as if a 34-year-old can rock a miniskirt like nobody's business, only to turn into a hideous freak the day she turns 35. They state nothing about the value individual choice plays into fashion; how a woman decides which silhouettes are flattering to her shape; and how fashion makes you feel.

Furthermore, these types of surveys reinforce the notion that women must have a mantra when deciding how to get dressed. The "no white after labor Day; no bared arms after forty" rules serve to limit and remind us that there are things we just shouldn't do. Women generations before us internalized these rules and bought clothes to abide by them. Dressing by the rules might have been an integral part of societal norms, but women may have missed out on wearing something they truly loved as a result.

Helen Mirren's famous bikini photos, and 47 year-old model Kristen McNemany's recent swimsuit shoot, demonstrate that the only thing that should influence a woman's choice in fashion is her self-esteem.When it comes to "age appropriate" clothing, perhaps it's not so much about numbers as it is about one's own confidence and ability to pull off trends and styles without looking like they are trying to be anything but themselves. This subject is so tricky that I actually tackled it before in a post back in March, though that was a more generalized discussion about dressing to stay young and not about avoiding specific articles of clothing. The Sartorialist blogger Scott Schuman once stated: "I don't believe in age-appropriate dressing. I believe in spirit-appropriate dressing."

What do you think? Any cut-off age that you particularly agree or disagree with? At what age will you stop wearing a miniskirt? Do you ever feel like your age prevents you from wearing something you want to? Discuss!

(Have you entered my giveaway for a gift bag and new bronzing products from The Body Shop? Enter here!)

Forever 21 striped tee; Anthropologie skirt; Gap sandals; TIKKR watch; Charming Charlie's rings

Outfit Post: The 36 year-old prom queen

So it's May. For many, May triggers thoughts of the following: The bloom of flowers, emergence of leaves on the trees, and summer fashions appearing in stores. But ever since my delicate adolescent years, May has pinpointed my attention on one thing - prom.

I have absolutely wonderful memories of my prom. Much like the royal wedding, prom was about one thing, and one thing only - my dress. I fantasized about that damm dress for years and tormented my poor mother about dress specifications for approximately as long. I daydreamed about the material, the neckline, the poof of the skirt, the amount of sequins and/or beading OR the lack of sequins/beading, and the length. I doodled pictures of Fantasy Dress in the margins of my homework. I cut out pictures of dresses I liked from magazines and carefully pasted them into a scrapbook. I engaged in passionate discussions regarding Fantasy Dress with as much vigor as the Mideast peace talks. This was a big deal.

When the time to purchase Fantasy Dress arrived, I was READY. Or so I thought. I waltzed confidently into my local boutique, shoulders squared and head held high. And I took one look at the rows of dresses for sale and promptly regressed into a cowering quivering overwhelmed creature on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There were SO MANY colors, SO MANY styles, SO MANY fabric choices, and ZOMG I CAN'T DO THIS I AM GOING TO BE NEKKID AT PROM AAAARRRGGGGHHH.

*Deep breath.*

After hysterics and deep breathing into a paper bag and many many glasses of water, I settled on a glorious 1990's Betsey Johnson concoction formulated from dark green lace with a demure sweetheart neckline and flared hem. It was perfect. I adored that dress. I would have worn it to sleep if my mother hadn't vehemently expressed her disapproval.

A few years ago, Morgan Spurlock ate nothing but McDonald's for 30 days and made a movie about it. In March, two New Yorkers inspired by nostalgia and prom season embarked on a much less gross but equally ambitious quest - to wear their prom dresses every day for 30 days straight. Called Take Me To The Prom, the Tumblr's authors documented their experience in their prom gear and provide thoughts on all things prom related. In addition to showing off remixed prom dress looks, Mallory and Bianca share inspirations, tips and tricks, prom stories, and videos. Though their month-long prom party has come to an end, the site is still there as a prime resource for any prom-goer in need of some inspiration. Such as myself. In an obvious example of either brain damage/temporary insanity, I thrifted a vintage prom dress the other day. And I wore it to fetch take-out. For realsies.

Can you imagine having to wear your prom dress for a straight month? Would it be a fantasy for you, or pure torture? Would you revel in the chance for a do-over, or does the mere thought make you break out in high school-like fits of self-consciousness? And what did your prom dress look like? Discuss!

Forever 21 denim jacket; vintage thrifted J Crew denim shirt; vintage thrifted 1980's prom dress ($8!); Gap tights; NYLA booties

Fashion rules broken: Dressing appropriately, wearing double denim, dressing mono-chromatically. Rules are for fools.

Outfit Post: Haters Gonna Hate - Dealing with negative comments

Yesterday was a lovely day. I hopped out of bed bright and early, caught an ex-boyfriend on Fox News, interviewed a vintage shop owner (where I scored a dreamy pair of 1960's cat-eye glasses) and had a spontaneous lunch with the husband at a fantastic restaurant I'd never been to. The weather was perfect, there was no traffic on the roads, and to top it off, I was having an exceptionally good hair day.

And then I arrived home to a hurtful comment on my blog.

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. I am well aware that exposing myself on a public forum makes me vulnerable to personal attacks. As a avid blog reader, I've heard the stories regarding hostile and nasty comments and knew I would eventually be at the receiving end. If you blog, the crazies will come. No matter how well-researched your posts are, how stylish your outfit is, and how witty you try to be, they'll be someone who believes they have a right to judge you or is looking to attack. But that rationale doesn't make it hurt any less. The comment in question was about my body, and it really stung, especially since I'm in recovery from anorexia.

After moping, pouting, and generally acting like a big baby, I picked myself off the floor and spent the night thinking about the best approach towards handling negative comments. As my blog grows, I am certain there will be more hostility as a result. It's unfortunate, and sad, but ultimately I am responsible for how I choose to react towards it. I believe that the way I respond to negative comments defines the person that I am. So here's my best advice for facing criticism and handling negative comments:

Resist the urge to respond immediately: After reading the comment I felt hurt, confused, and defensive. Was the commenter right? Who were they to criticize how I chose to dress, and my personal appearance? My fingers felt itchy with the urge to pound out a snarky response. Instead I took a deep breath, closed my laptop, and put on some music to distract myself. Responding, especially while in the throes of emotion, would only make things worse and potentially cause me to behave in a way I'd regret.

Put yourself in their shoes: Giving the benefit of the doubt to a negative commenter can be extremely difficult. But it might help you gain some perspective. Perhaps the poster is going through a break-up, has suffered a loss or is struggling with financial difficulties. Their rude behavior is much more about their personal issues than it is about you. A good rule of thumb is that nasty or negative comments are never about you or what you’ve written. They are always about the person who wrote them. Even if people disagree with what you’ve said, most of them can do it in a sane & respectful fashion. Those who can't are obviously struggling with issues deeper than what you've written or how you look.

Refrain from confrontation: Defending yourself in these matters can be tricky business. You don’t want to present yourself in a bad light with your readers, and stooping to someone else’s level rarely gets you anywhere. When I first read the comment I felt as if I had to defend myself, and was hungry to have the last word. However, doing so would likely have resulted in more inflammatory comments and emails. Engaging in these actions would have been nothing more than a waste of time and energy, and only distract me from the positive things I'm trying to do with my blog.

Delete, delete, delete: Seeing as the comment provided no constructive criticism or positive benefit, I chose to delete it. Rendering it into digital oblivion felt really good. Some bloggers might have approved the comment as a way of garnering support from followers. Others might have taken the opportunity to privately respond to the poster. Personally, I don't believe initiating a potentially tricky line of communication is worth it. Depending on your blogging software, you might be able to block the poster from ever commenting again.

Live and learn:  Receiving negative or rude comments is a part of blogging. There will always be some troublemakers who have nothing better to do than start - and fan - the flames. Develop a thick skin, don’t stoop to their level, and conduct yourself in a professional, respectful tone.

What has your experience been with receiving negative comments? How did you chose to respond? Do you have any other advice for handling negative comments?

Forever 21 linen shirt; TJ Maxx white tee; AG Adriano Goldschmied boyfriend jeans; Gap sandals; thrifted vintage clutch; Gap Outlet belt; Urban Outfitters necklace; eBay bracelets

 

Outfit Post: My first kiss went a little like this...

Today I am wearing shorts with tights and boots. The last time I sported this look was in 1988. I had a really unfortunate perm and spent hours making mix tapes (y'all know what a cassette is, right? It's a demonic device that get tangled and twisted and eventually knotted into one gigantic mess that leaves you swearing and defeated.) I had also just received my first kiss, and drew the following conclusions about kissing and life in general:

1. Kissing is disgusting. 
2. Kissing is gross. 
3. Kissing is overrated.
4. I will never kiss anyone ever again. 
5. Ever.

These sentiments were not exactly those I expected to have after fourteen years of watching the birthday-cake-sitting-on-the-kitchen-table kissing scene in Sixteen Candles, and the dropping-the-purse-in-the-rain-in-the-parking-lot-after-prom kissing scene in Pretty in Pink.

I met First Kiss during a spring break jaunt with my family to a friend's farm in Upstate NY. He was a sixteen year old country boy with sandy blond hair that fell into his eyes in a sexy, pre-Justin Bieber sort of way. For a week we swam together in the lake, went out for ice cream, and talked around the fire late into the evenings. On my last day of my trip he led me into a barn, through dusty horse stalls and towards a dark corner. I knew in my head that he was going to kiss me that day. He knew I had never been kissed, and that I wanted my first kiss to be with him. Plus, I was fourteen and scared that if I didn’t kiss someone (him) soon I would surely die an old maid.

He leaned across and took me by surprise. Instead of the lustful, drawn-out, passionate staring into one another's eyes I expected before our mouths met, I felt a forceful smash of the lips to the face and a tongue halfway down my throat (or so it felt.) It was too wet, too slimy, too aggressive.There was no romance. No passion. I felt disgusted and duped, but I also knew that wasn't how it was supposed to feel. Unfortunately, that kiss did repel me from kissing for quite awhile. I seriously thought that I could never enjoy it. Ever.

Thankfully, I dated a lot of boys after First Kiss, and I eventually learned that as intimate as a kiss is, it's even better when it's with someone who really knows what they're doing. One should not need a shower after being kissed. The lips should not feel bruised. And if the sensation of being choked is present, run like hell. Sure, there's a time for full blown, against the wall, hands on the face, unrestrained passionate kissing accompanied by the frantic removal of clothing. But then again, a sweet brushing of the lips, simple in its intent, is just as delicious.

I was thinking of First Kiss when I got dressed this morning. Surely he'd approve of my tights under shorts styling. Despite the fact that it's been years since I pulled off this look, I think I did pretty well.


What was your first kiss like? Did it intrigue you, or repel you? Do you think bad kissing is a relationship deal-breaker? And how do you feel about the denim shorts with tights revival?

Gap windowpane blouse; Gap Outlet tee (under blouse); Gap denim shorts) Gap Outlet belt; target tights; thrifted J Crew boots; Gap crossbody belt; Plato's Closet leather belt

Outfit Post: How many sizes hang in your closet?

Yesterday, emboldened by the suddenly warm weather, I decided embark on an epic quest to clean out my closet. One of the things I insisted on when we relocated here to Dallas was a  walk-in closet in the master bedroom. As a former New Yorker raised in teeny tiny apartments, I've spent the majority of my post-adolescent life daydreaming of the Perfect Closet. As a result, my closet fantasies have grown increasingly intricate for a space some might consider insignificant (and by some, I mean men. Men whose footwear is limited to a pair of Chucks and scuffed black dress shoes. You know those men.)  

My Perfect Closet is a spacious, airy room, flooded by daylight from floor-to-ceiling windows and antique chandeliers. Anchored by a pink quilted fainting couch, it features custom-designed closet rods designed to bear the considerable weight of maxi skirts, dresses, jeans and blazers. Perfect Closet also includes a generous array of padded, compartmentalized drawers to hold jewelry, lingerie, tights and socks. Rows and rows of shelves are dedicated to shoes, organized by color, heel height, and brand. Floor-length mirrors make it possible for me to know exactly what I look like without relying on my husband's opinion (which is always the same. "Uh, you look great...I mean hot...I mean thin. Yeah, that's it.") Perfect Closet comes fully equipped with an Italian seamstress and Italian-English interpreter for said seamstress. It would always be immaculate; it would always be organized; and it would always smell like clean laundry, suede, and Gucci Envy.
 
Basically, imagine Mariah Carey's closet, but with less glitter and butterflies.

Dream lover, come rescue me.

Naturally, the reality of my closet doesn't quite meet with the fantasy. Instead of custom-made shoe cabinets and padded drawers, it features haphazard mounds of rejected potential outfits, belts intertwined in a sexually suggestive manner, and twisted wayward hangers. However, it's a walk-in, and includes plenty of room for my ever-growing collection of vintage clothes and whatever intriguing crap I haul home from the Goodwill.

While struggling through Project Closet Purge yesterday, I couldn't help but notice that the size of my garments varied. Widely. One shirt was a XS; two skirts, one a size four and one an 8, shared a hanger; another top was a M. I recently learned that the majority of women have a minimum of three sizes in their wardrobe. What gives? I have a number of theories:

• Weight fluctuations: We all have things we can't wear because they're too big or too small. Many of us own articles of clothing in "aspirational sizes" - items in smaller sizes we either used to wear, or own merely to emotionally flagellate ourselves into eating less and exercising more. I'm always reluctant to get rid of items that don't fit. It makes sense: I spent good money them! And I might even love that blouse/dress/pair of jeans! Having an emotional attachment to an item certainly makes it more challenging to part with. Furthermore, if your weight yo-yo's,  there's a little voice in the back of your head whispering keep it, you might wear it again. And there's really no way to know if this voice is right.

• Complex Proportions: Quite often (and this will simply shock you) our bodies refuse to conform to one size. Occasionally, and stop me if you've heard this, your top half and bottom half are different sizes. Large-busted and small-hipped; small on top and larger bottom; tiny waist and fuller hips; broad-shouldered and petite. Most clothes rarely account for such wide variations. Traditional sizing revolves around six different body types: round, inverted triangle, hourglass, pear, diamond, and straight. However,  today's fashion industry has replaced the six different categories with two terms, “bottom-” or “top” heavy, with multiple combinations between each. A Google search regarding dressing for your body type revealed over eleven million pages. It's no wonder our closets hold so many sizes.

• Standardized Sizing Is A Joke: This is ridiculous and not discussed enough. If you wear a Small T-shirt from the Gap, you'll need a Medium at Abercrombie & Fitch. If you wear a size two at Loft, you'll need a four or six at Urban Outfitters. Occasionally, even garments sold at the same store won't have congruent sizing. Take Target and Old Navy. I've bought the same style pants in different colors, all in the same size. One pair was too big, one too small, and one just right. There is no reasonable explanation for this. Nothing causes more cognitive dissonance for me than to know that my beloved faux leather bomber jacket from Target is an XL while the T-shirt I'm wearing under it is a small.

• Vanity Sizing: According to Wikipedia, vanity sizing, also known as size inflation, is used to refer to the phenomenon of ready-to-wear clothing of the same nominal size becoming larger over time. So pants you purchase in stores today might be two to three sizes smaller than those you purchased five years ago, despite no change to your weight. Vanity sizing, as its name suggests, is designed to satisfy buyers' wishes to appear thin and feel better about themselves. However, in the end, you have no clue what size you really are.

Of course, it doesn't matter how many sizes you have. But I'm curious - have you struggled with sizing issues? Do emotional attachments make it difficult for you to get rid of things? Do you purchase clothes in aspirational sizes as a weight loss or fitness goal? What do you think about vanity sizing? Has it affected how you shop? And...just for fun...what does your dream closet look like? 

Thrifted Target blazer; thrifted Romeo and Juliet Couture tee; thrifted vintage Ann Taylor silk skirt; Gap Outlet tights; Urban Outfitters 6x6 booties; Gap crossbody bag; Forever 21 bracelet; Betsey Johnson watch

Outfit Post: Favorite lipstick, rest in peace

I need to ask for a moment of silence.






It appears that at some point during last weekend's Texas Style Council Conference, while tweeting and eating Tex-Mex and drinking and getting hit on by lonely hobo hipsters and singing karaoke and blogging, I lost my most favorite lipstick. I have done the things most of us do when realizing we've misplaced something: Freaked out, emptied my purses, tore apart my suitcase, had a panic attack, checked all my pockets, cleaned out my SUV, freaked out some more, and, eventually, stoically and tearfully accepted that the lipstick was gone (sniff sniff.)

The lipstick in question was MAC's Viva Glam. It was the perfect almost-red color - glossy, creamy, and not too bright. No matter what I was wearing, this lipstick made me feel gorgeous. (I should also add that this lipstick was my introduction into the wonderful world of MAC cosmetics, my obsession on which has become a bit of a Problem. I used a capital P, to emphasize the serious nature of this situation.) Viva Glam reminded me of my early childhood, when I'd perch on the corner of my bathroom sink and watch my mom apply her make-up. My mother was an intense hoarder of cosmetics. Eyeshadows spilled from Zip-Loc bags. Blushes were crammed into shoe boxes. Nail polishes, in a rainbow of colors, lined our medicine cabinet. Every morning my mom and I would crowd into our teeny tiny NYC apartment bathroom and I'd watch, enthralled, as she powdered and plucked and painted herself into an eighties glamazon. A final spritz of Dior's Poison capped off her opulent, somewhat embalmed look. I was smitten.

MAC's Viva Glam had a similar effect. It transformed me from a harried suburban mom into a chic gamine Aubrey Hepburn-type, the kind of woman who wears kitten heels and smokes unfiltered French cigarettes and drinks red wine at 1 pm while listening to Edith Pilaf records. This woman also has a collection of Hermes Birkin bags, drives a vintage Jaguar XKE convertible, and owns a flat in Buenos Aires. She and her sultry Latin boyfriend spend afternoons wandering through art galleries, eating tapas, and making love on an antique mahogany bed draped in filmy linen. They serve cocktails in vintage barware, vacation in Budapest, and spend their free time collecting feminist art with which to decorate their Moroccan-inspired, zebra-carpeted, Rococo chandelier-ed home.

I want to be this woman.

In my MAC Viva Glam, I believed I was one step closer. Without it I'm, well, me. Cheapskate, half-hearted cook, insomniac, thrifter, slow typist, and procrastinator of most household chores. And unfortunate object-loser. (Editor's Note: Yesterday I also lost my favorite ring. THANK GOD NOT MY ENGAGEMENT RING, or I'd have serious issues.) My life is about as scintillating as a shampoo commercial.

Do you have a favorite lipstick? Are you loyal to a certain brand? Care give a recommendation? Because I could certainly use a pick-me-up.

Here I am, sans awesomesauce lipstick and sultry Latin boyfriend.

Forever 21 linen shirt; Forever 21 floral top; Citizens of Humanity jeans; vintage thrifted Coach bag; Gap sandals; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelets; Forever 21 feather earrings

Oufit Post: In which I rant against rompers

* I begin with a disclaimer. A list of things I DO NOT HATE. Pay attention because it's important for you to know that although I DO HATE some things, I am not a HATER. I do not drink of the haterade, as it were.

I DO NOT HATE:

• People who wear rompers.
• People who manufacture rompers.
• People who sell rompers.
• People who buy rompers.
• People who model rompers.
• People who design rompers.
• People who vehemently disagree.
• People who won't even bother to read this.

Got it? Okay, good, so let's begin.

I hate rompers. I hate rompers because: 

• They don't fit me. Truth be told, most rompers are designed for tall thin girls who smoke gauloises cigarettes and drink vokda tonics and somehow manage to look gorgeously glamorous without washing their hair for 10 days. Such as my friend Erin, who bought a denim romper in Austin and looks amaze-balls in it.  For short women with inner thighs and non-concave stomachs, such as myself, rompers are extremely difficult to pull off. Last summer I wasted countless hours trying in vain to find a romper that was both flattering and and didn't remind me of toddler wear. This was an epic fail. At some point I had to pause to ask myself "WHY, Elissa, are you continuing on such a pointless, torturous, emotional quest?" So I stopped. And my world became bucolic again.

• They are not comfortable. I know there are many women out there who will argue this point. "But it's one piece and so comfy!" they'll squeal. In my experience, the crotch-to-neck ratio of a romper is designed for someone with no torso. And let's not even talk about the camel-toe, because I'm too much of a lady to go there. AND, you're probably wondering why I'm so educated with the fit of rompers. Well, at one point, I actually did own one. Every time I slipped it on I wondered how such a seemingly innocent article of clothing managed to fit beautifully at the waist and arms but pulled at my neck and, uh, ladybits and made me feel like I was being STRANGLED AND OH MY GOD GET THIS THING OFF OF ME. And then there's the issue of wedgies. I rest my case.

• Dresses/skirts/pants/shorts/capris (well, that one's debatable) are infinitely more flattering than a romper. I luuuuve to wear a dress. I look better in a skirt. I feel feminine and comfortable (and do not have to spend a minute worrying about crotch issues.) My husband agrees, but that doesn't really matter because what I wear is a big part of how I express myself and how I take care of myself. If I wore a romper two days a week, I'd be spending two days a week not doing what makes me happy or what makes me feel good. In a world of bills and stress and devastating earthquakes and tsunamis why not do something that makes you happy?

Now, I ask you: Is there an article of clothing that you just don't get? Are you a fan of rompers? Am I being redonkulous?

Thrifted Junk Food Lynard Skynard tee; thrifted Paige jeans; Target belt; Gap sandals; Urban Outfitters necklace; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; eBay gold and turquoise bracelet; World Market Catholic saints bracelet; Marc Jacobs watch; Fossil turquoise earrings

Outfit Post: Do you dress older or younger than you really are?

I'm going to start this post with a confession: I am closer to 40 than I am to 20. A lot closer. However, I wear clothes that most twenty-somethings embrace - such as miniskirts, mixed patterns, trapeze tanks (like I have on today) and platform booties. My favorite stores include Forever 21, Lulu's, and Urban Outfitters, stores that attract twenty-somethings like bees to honey. And I love my tattoos, crazy bright red hair, and willingness to experiment with my ever-changing personal style.

However, as I've gotten older, I've become a bit more concerned about dressing age-appropriately while continuing to wear the things that make me feel the most me. I cannot relate to the desperation to look younger that some women have. I will never inject my face with poison to banish wrinkles. I will never willingly fork over money to get my lips plumped, cellulite treated, or face lifted. To be honest, when I get dressed in the morning, I don't spend much time thinking about the age-appropriateness of my outfit. If I like how I look, that's enough for me, whether I'm garbed in Forever 21 or pulling on an Ann Taylor cardigan and pants.

However, I was intrigued by a January survey from British department store Debenhams, which reveals that a whopping 89% of women "desire to dress younger than their years," and that 55% consider 70 the ideal age to finally start dressing the part of someone born in their birth year. According to CNBC, "Most women felt that their thirties and forties were torn between dressing frumpier when adjusting to demands of babies and small children and a growing concern with looking younger. Over 50% said they started to dress younger in their thirties and 90% admitted they had started to dress younger by their mid-forties."

A spokesperson for the store says, "You only have to look at celebrity examples like Elle Macpherson and Sophia Loren to see that women are looking younger than ever. So it's no surprise that our customers are also dressing for how they feel, rather than what it says on their drivers license - and we want to encourage them." 

Perhaps the most revealing part of the survey was that only 12% of men, by comparison, had ever considered dressing to look younger. 

For most women, adapting your style to your age is no different to dressing for your body type, or your personal style, or your lifestyle. Defining, and dressing age appropriately, is a touchy subject for many women. This study led me to wonder why age-appropriate dressing is a tricky area to navigate:

• People don’t like to be labeled: Judging people as groups instead of individuals poses problems. We prefer to be seen as unique creatures, and how we chose to dress is definitely an individual choice. For example, saying that “women over 40 should not wear miniskirts” is far too general. How short is the skirt? Are you 41 or 89?

• The discrepancy between body and mind: The physical signs of aging start to kick in during our late thirties and early forties. Yet it’s exactly at this age where our intellect and experience really come into their own. Many women are more accepting of themselves. So just as we are becoming more confident and sure of who we are, our bodies start to let us down.

• Dressing to hold onto our youth: We can’t get back the years that have passed, and realizing that they’re gone can be a hard blow to accept. As a result, some women chose to dress younger as a way of retaining their youth.

I think I may start to gravitate towards the women's section a little more when I am, oh, say around 60. I am 36 years old (there, I said it) but can't see myself falling out of love with my skinny jeans, form-fitting tops and mini skirts any time soon. I do wear much less revealing clothing than I did when I was younger - no more low-cut tops or extremely short, tight dresses for me. On the flip side, I know plenty of women younger than me who like to dress "older", exploring their personal style through more modest pieces such as knee-length skirts and blazers.

I love the idea that age is just a number-  check out Helen Mirren in a bikini! - but when do we stop looking like we're flaunting our fabulous figures and start looking a little ridiculous for trying too hard? Do you agree with the survey that says 70 is the perfect time to start dressing your age? Do you think you fairly represent your generation when you get dressed, whatever that may be? Do you dress older or younger than you really are? Leave a comment and discuss!

TJ Maxx trapeze tank; Target racerback tank (underneath); Gap Outlet Cargos; Gap studded sandals; Urban Outfitters necklace; TIKKR watch

Nine-oh-two-one-oh hello, polka dots! (Everybody, Everywear)

Right now on my nightstand perches a tower of magazines so precipitous that it threatens to topple and cause irreparable damage to my wood floors. Along with Tori Amos bootlegs, jeans, and lip gloss, I've always had a thing for magazines. I got my first subscription to Seventeen when I was in the ninth grade. I'm unsure of the exact year because I vehemently avoid math of any sort aside from calculating my clothing budget for the month. I also refuse to disclose the year I graduated high school because it was so long ago that written communication was limited to cave paintings and hieroglyphics.

I took great pleasure in answering those insipid little magazine quizzes about whether you should have sex with your boyfriend (whom I always fantasized to be Brandon Walsh from 90210, but apparently he never got the memo because I am STILL waiting for my phone to ring)  and what your perfume says about your personality and what styles of sunglasses were most flattering for your facial features. In case you're wondering, Seventeen never once recommended when one should have sex with their boyfriend. They were basically against the entire thing.

However, my true magazine love was bullet focused on the fashions. Oh, the FASHIONS! (say this in zee accent of zat zany episode 90210 when Brenda takes on zee affected French accent to seduce zat cute boy during zee senior trip to Parreee. ZEE FAZZIONNNNS!) I have VERY vivid memories of the 90's spreads in Seventeen (and YM and Sassy and Mademoiselle, for that matter.) I never had the urge to be a designer or even learn to sew a button onto my shirt, but I very clearly recall how much in lurve I was with those clothes. It doesn't surprise me that those distinctively 90's fashion trends are so hot right now. The loud florals! The statement necklaces and Doc Martins and maxi skirts! The mixed patterns! While I was doing "research" for this post (i.e scouring blogs, an activity which is coming dangerously close to replacing my magazine obsession) I came across some very colorful teen magazine spreads celebrating the more-is-more 90's spirit.

A natural, healthy body on the cover of a magazine, as opposed to the emaciated models hawking clothing today, is nothing short of a revelation.  And that bold floral bikini gives me the wants so hard.

Teen fashion in the 90's was just all-out fun. This looks FUN, right? The decade gave us a lot to be grateful for. Like the combination of stripes and florals and patterns.

Doc Martins, flannel, and striped? Yes please. (Though the beanie has got to go.)

A friend recently told me that if you were a follower of a fashion trend the first time it came around, you should avoid it like the plague should it resurface again. I always kind of agreed. But seeing these spreads made me reconsider - hence my polka-dot pattern-mixing of today (which happens to coincide perfectly with today's polka dot challenge on Everybody, Everywhere.) Kelly Taylor would approve. (And P.S - I did not wear this blouse two days in a row...these pics were taken last week in preparation because my husband is out of town today. So there.) 

Gap blazer; Forever 21 silk blouse; thrifted vintage polka-dot skirt; Gap Outlet tights; Urban Outfitters 6x6 booties; Forever 21 necklaces; Forever 21 bracelets

Outfit Post: Is women's fashion man-repelling or merely absurd?

What is the point of fashion? Self-expression? Creativity? Individuality? According to one blogger, fashion is about repelling men. Oh. Okay. Darn.

The blogger in question is named Leandra Medine. Here is her fashion "thing", as described by the New York Times:

Since April 2010, Ms. Medine, 21, has been publishing photos of herself on her blog, the Man Repeller, as well as shots of similarly challenging recent runway looks: fashions that, though promoted by designers and adored by women, most likely confuse - or worse, repulse - the average straight man. These include turbans, harem pants, jewelry that looks like a torture instrument, jumpsuits, ponchos, furry garments resembling large unidentified animals, boyfriend jeans, clogs and formal sweatpants.

Medine's blog is a tongue-in-cheek chronicle of her adventures in these bewildering articles of clothing. A quick examination shows her in suspenders, argyle socks with pony hair sandals, and drop-crotch pants, posing for photographers with other slovenly-chic high-profile fashion bloggers. She argues that now, more than ever, designers are producing clothes which push the boundaries of fashion so far that they turn off (and repel) the average man.

The fashion world has taken notice. Medine's blog won top honors in last month's Bloglovin' Awards. And fans have begun to use her blog name as a verb, as in, “I am totally man-repelling today.” (Warning: This might have to become part of my vernacular from now on. I think I'll start today. My belt is totes man-repelling. Uh, yeah.)

On first glance, The Man Repeller seems very similar to other blogs I read: a young, coltish woman mixes thrift, discount and runway pieces in a haphazard way that somehow looks chic in the end (while these pieces would transform me into a schizophrenic hobo.) However, I truly believe that this girl doesn't understand men. On average, men do not care what you wear. If you're that concerned about repelling men with your outfit, ask yourself these questions first:

1. Have you showered in the last 24 hours?
2. Do you have a vagina?
3. Are you single?

If you can answer yes to any or all 3 of these questions you will fail to repel men. An outfit composed of six types of material might confuse them, sure. Bizarre as they might be, most of the clothes Medine wears only underscores that she is slim and elegant, albeit in a quirky, offbeat sort of way. Even in a homemade dress constructed from office supply paper and a body stocking, Medine looks charming and sort of cute.

Furthermore, I don't believe women's fashion is about attracting men. As far as I'm concerned, fashion is about self-expression. There's freedom in being creatively attired and wearing pieces that communicate your individual sense of style. Shopping for the perfect heels, the sharpest tailored blazer, and the ultimate red lipstick is a uniquely individual, personally rewarding experience. Choosing an outfit is even more so. When I get dressed in the morning, it's always from the perspective of what I want to wear, what I find comfortable and appealing, and what message I want to send to the world. I really could care less about what men think.

Despite its name and the running joke Medine has about not getting action because of the ridiculous things she wears, The Man Repeller isn't really about men. It's about the absurdity of 'high' fashion - stuff that is just plain ugly and confusing. Medine is funny, and her advice regarding how to be featured on fashion blogs like The Sartorialist was totally accurate and literally made me chortle out loud. Hint: wear as many different types of fabric as possible in multiple clashing pieces. Add heinous lipstick, an affected snarl, sky-high clogs, and you're in.

According to my husband, I am not man-repelling in this outfit today at all. Actually, he described it as "hot". So I suppose I need to work on my skills a little bit more. Maybe if I added a turban, leg warmers and suspenders I'd make the cut.

Thrifted Gap sweater; thrifted Loft skirt; Target belt; We Love Colors tights; Kate Spade boots; thrifted vintage crocodile bag; Fossil earrings

Things That Are Awesome: Flea markets

I am a simple woman. A shot of whiskey is my perfect drink. Take me to a used bookstore and I will be your best friend for life. I am perfectly content spending an afternoon on coffee shop patio reading my Kindle. And flea markets make me exorbitantly, unreasonably happy. As far as I'm concerned, there is nothing better than a day spent outdoors, wandering from booth to booth, never quite knowing what to expect.

My parents didn't have much money when I was growing up. Fortunately, my mother was a champion bargain shopper and a frequent visitor of flea markets near our home in Queens. On our trips together I'd closely study proper market behavior -  the art of haggling with vendors and hunting down bargains, and which stand sold the best frozen lemonade. At the flea we'd pick up things like handmade tie-dyed socks and scented candles bottled by bored housewives in their basements and knock-off purses and hippie jewelry woven out of hemp. I grew to love the uncertainty of it, the unpredictability of vendors and the ever-changing merchandise. Perhaps I would dig up a bargain on tights. Maybe I'd go home with a parakeet. If I was lucky, I might actually end up with something I needed, like tube socks and personalized pencils for math class. You just never knew.

However, Texas flea markets beat the New York markets of my youth to a bloody pulp. In addition to better food (Frito chili pie and hot boiled peanuts? Yes please) there's completely epic people-watching. There are grizzled old men in overalls selling firearms and "art" constructed from antlers and and whatever crap scrounged from their front yards. Women in housedresses push rolling carts past you, cigarettes hanging limply from their lips. It seems that everyone either sports a mullet, Civil War-era facial hair, or Nascar apparel. Or a combination of all three. The truly stylish wear Carhart jackets and camo pants. The supremely stylish are outfitted in Carhart camo and a Nascar tee. And don't even get me started on the accents flying through the air. I couldn't understand a damm thing anyone was saying.

Several booths do a brisk business selling fried apple pies, dusty Depression-era glasswear, studded tee shirts and bags emblazoned with crosses and zebra prints, and household items constructed from scrap metal. Here's a sample:

If you're ever in the Dallas area, definitely take the time to check out McKinney Third Monday Trade Days, Canton Third Monday Trade Days, or for the truly adventurous, Bonham First Monday Trade Days. Bonham's market offers things like chickens and goats and truck engine parts and grandma's musty afghans. It's really something to see.


For my flea market adventure, I went with a favorite pair of boyfriend jeans and a lightweight sweater. Compared to my comrades in camo and overalls, I was most definitely overdressed.

Are you a fan of flea markets? Any interesting ones in your area?

Gap stripped cotton sweater; Gap tee (under sweater), AG Adriano Goldschmied boyfriend jeans; Forever 21 shoes; thrifted Coach belt; Urban Outfitters flower studs

 

Shoes versus bags - which side are you on?

Today I introduce you to the world's cutest bag. It's studded. It's black. It weights approximately 10 ounces. While many purses strive to be functional, this one is mostly decorative. The opening is just barely wide enough for a lipstick, my driver's license, and a credit card. And yet my love for this bag borders on obsessive. I stalked Gap.com for weeks waiting for it to come in, and my hands trembled with delight when I placed my order. It makes me inexplicably, ridiculously happy.

Since I was a little girl, I've had a thing for purses and handbags. Some people stroll through the mall and see shoes beckoning from windows, watches and jewelry glistening in cases, and hear the soft beckoning of this season's pencil skirts and cardigans. I see bags. Bags I'm thinking of buying, bags I already own, bags I can't understand, bags that could double as luggage, bags I couldn't dream of being able to afford. They sit in store windows and swing from the shoulders of shoppers, teasing me with their studs and zippers and tassels and quilting.

From canvas, to crocodile, to butter-soft leather, on and on through my daydreams they march, each more unique and coveted than the last. They haunt me, these bags. I fantasize about the sequined Marc Jacobs clutch I spied in Neiman Marcus back in September. An Urban Outfitters satchel from spring '07 is a frequent player in my fashion daydreams. And don't even get me started on 1994's Lady Dior, which makes my hands clench into ineffectual grabby-grabby fists of want.

Truthfully, as I progressed from little girl to teenager to adult, I never thought I'd stay a bag person. I always thought I'd morph into a shoe person. Shoe people are impetuous and fun and understand that fluctuating waistlines are no match for a jaunty little pair of heels. When nothing else fits, a new pair of shoes will. Shoe people read blogs like Sea of Shoes and Obsessed with Shoes, where they spend hours researching this season's ankle boots. Shoe people travel in packs and will happily spend an entire afternoon in the Saks shoe department. They talk about footwear by name: Mary Jane. Billy. Karolina. They spend afternoons obsessive-compulsively organizing their shoes according to heel height and color. And they speak the language as if they were born into it - vamp, brogues, t-strap, grommet.

Mostly, though, shoe people are willing to sacrifice their comfort and sanity for a gravity-defying pair of heels. I am not. An hour in heels transforms me into a whining cripple. But a bag would never torment me the way a pair of stilettos could. Give me J Crew's sequined, chain-strapped minaudière over a sparkling pair of pumps any day. I'd rather sling Bodkier's aggressively-zippered Howard Street satchel over my shoulder than suffer in black leather platforms. And with the coming of seventies fashion for spring, you'd better believe I'd chose a color-blocked flap bag (such as this little beauty from Marc Jacobs) over a sky-scraping pair platform sandals.

A bag doesn't require a pedicure and endless supply of band-aids. I don't have to consider hem height and hosiery. The weather forecast is of no importance in my choice of what to carry. I can walk to my closet, pick a bag off the shelf, and be done.

And now I ask you: Are you a shoe person, or a bag person? Do we need to be one or the other? And what's your favorite bag?

Forever 21 lace top; James Pearse tank (under top); Seven For All Mankind jeans; Forever 21 necklace; Nordstrom cross necklace; Gap leather bag; Steve Madden flats; Betsey Johnson gold watch