My knowledge of menswear lags far behind my knowledge of womenswear. This should not come as a surprise. I’ve been zipping and buttoning, squeezing and shoving myself into clothes for decades. And beyond the dressing of my own self, I’ve spent my life observing how other women dress. Being born into a family full of them, spending nearly half of my school years surrounded by them, the ways in which girls and women dress themselves was long ago demystified. When I began my more thorough fashion education near the end of college, there was a substantial foundation on which to build.
I've always been curious about menswear but until recently I didn't pay as much attention to it, didn't go through their runway shows and religiously devour their fashion magazines. And the observational skills that throughout my life provided me with reams of information about womenswear could become easily derailed. To be honest, they are still susceptible to derailment. When I see a man, his clothes are not always the first thing that I notice. Height and eyes and shoulders and that faint waft of cologne, those things catch my eye and hold my interest. Clothing is usually secondary. And even when I do notice it first, those other pieces, the height and eyes and shoulders and cologne, come in to crowd my thoughts.
It wasn't until I moved back to Boston in 2009, unemployed and emotionally bruised after the failures of New York, that things began to change. I got a holiday position at a clothing store that had once dominated my adolescence. I hoped that I would be able to stay on for awhile once the season came to a close. I ended up there for nearly five years. But that story, the long, winding tale of my underemployment, is best saved for another day and a different venue. Three years into my time there, as the brand's footprint in that corner of the mall expanded, I moved across the hall for the holiday season to act as a temporary manager at our men’s suiting shop.
Working retail during the holiday season is a particular kind of beast but this was a smaller, calmer situation. Yes, people came in frantically searching for gifts and weekends could be hectic and overwhelming but generally there was quiet. When things slowed, which they often did on weekdays, and there was nothing to fold or refold, I liked to spend time with the ties. It was the table that most easily fell into messiness. Near the front and filled with confections asking to be touched, shoppers often stopped there first. It wasn’t particularly shocking. Ties are considered an easy, sometimes lazy, gift and it was the gift giving season after all.
I got very handy at wrapping them nicely in tissue paper before placing them into long, narrow boxes. But I always demured when asked to tie the box up with some ribbon. I never learned how to get my hands to move in quite the right way.
They were organized by color on the table from warm to cool. Everything was always warm to cool. The sameness of things was one of the pieces of retail that I enjoyed. Colors always moved in the same direction. Sweaters were always folded one of two ways. Not too long into my tenure at the company I was able to let my mind slip off to other places while completing tasks. Places that weren’t whatever store I happened to be working in.
But the monotony of the task wasn’t the only reason that I was drawn to the ties.
I never had tomboy leanings when I was younger. I preferred full skirts and ruffled socks and patterned tights as a little girl. My adult closet houses numerous dresses and skirts. I had obviously seen ties but never had a reason or an impulse to examine them up close. Even when working in the larger store in its previously co-ed days, I rarely had a chance to peruse the menswear. I'd proven myself adept at tasks that were not selling and could most often be found behind a register or in the stockroom. But being near the menswear had made my curiosity about it grow. So when I finally found myself surrounded by it, I was flush with excitement.
The ties were folded in half on the table, two or three of each style placed next to each other. I liked the way the silk ones shined. I loved running my fingers down the length of the knit ones and feeling their textures. I liked picking them up, striped and pin dotted and solid, and seeing how they complemented, or clashed, with various shirts. But most of all I liked to bask in how pretty they were. Pretty, of course, is a descriptor often avoided in the world of menswear. But that’s what they were and that was why I liked them so much.
Sooner than I would have liked, I was back across the hall surrounded by the familiar trappings of women's clothing. I hadn't finished the lessons that one of the personal stylist's was giving a handful of us on how to properly pin a suit for tailoring. My four-in-hand still needed work. Bowties perplexed me. I missed the thrill of discovery. I've always loved learning and there was little new for me to pick up back across the hall with the skirts and the dresses.
I started to casually hang out at both of the men's shops. Sometimes I would pick up shifts at the one selling our casual menswear. I began doing some of my shopping there as well. Collecting ginghams and sweaters. And I began paying attention. To what arrived in new collections and what flew out of the stores and what lingered. To what fabrics and colors the suits arrived in when the seasons changed. To the range of denim and chino fits. I began visiting the other men's stores in the mall and conducting the types of fact finding missions that I had been undertaking in women's stores for years. And slowly, very slowly, the pieces began to come together.
On Saturday mornings, as Silver Lake begins to stretch its legs, I like to walk down my section of Sunset Boulevard with my earbuds firmly in place and take in the goings on. I file away everyone's clothes, put what they're wearing away for later distillation and understanding. I push away those things that would muddy the process. And I find myself smiling more than usual.
Showing posts with label People Watching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label People Watching. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Friday, September 3, 2010
Showtime
I measure my time away from New York in various ways. Months. Seasons of Gossip Girl viewed. Number of hot dogs not consumed during numerous wanderings through SoHo. Glasses of Pinot Grigio not poured.
Fashion Weeks missed.
I draw inspiration, for what I write and how I dress, from observation. It shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me that the notes I took throughout school never progressed far beyond a series of bullet points. I gained more from actively listening. Facts and figures stuck in my brain, and mindlessly scribbling them down never helped me retain them. In a similar way, seeing things in the flesh, drinking them in and spending time with them, has been one of the most important ways I’ve learned about clothes. About fashion and dressing and style and all of those words that seem to mean the same thing but are vastly different.
New York City proved its own source of inspiration on a fairly regular basis, but it wasn’t the same as being surrounded so fully as I was then. During those seasons where I got to attend very few or no shows at all, sitting in Bryant Park with an iced coffee was enough. Doing that thing where I stare at people’s shoes. Taking in the quirky and over the top and eccentric alongside the minimalist and reserved and subtle. Standing on a subway platform with my heels in hand and watching a model remove the makeup from her face. It gave me a chance to experiment with my own choices. To find new combinations for things that had been sitting in my closet for ages. I complained and griped and seriously considered throwing my eyeliner on an open flame much as I had contemplated burying my Calculus textbook years earlier, but it was all part of the learning experience. The complete and total breakdown that sometimes occurs before epiphany.
And so I miss it. I can sit in my leggings and eat snacks and watch shows with my computer on my lap, but it doesn’t compare to the energy that flows through a space as the lights dim and then rise again. I don’t smell the just applied coat of paint.
My ears don’t ring from the ferocity of the bass.
Fashion Weeks missed.
I draw inspiration, for what I write and how I dress, from observation. It shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me that the notes I took throughout school never progressed far beyond a series of bullet points. I gained more from actively listening. Facts and figures stuck in my brain, and mindlessly scribbling them down never helped me retain them. In a similar way, seeing things in the flesh, drinking them in and spending time with them, has been one of the most important ways I’ve learned about clothes. About fashion and dressing and style and all of those words that seem to mean the same thing but are vastly different.
New York City proved its own source of inspiration on a fairly regular basis, but it wasn’t the same as being surrounded so fully as I was then. During those seasons where I got to attend very few or no shows at all, sitting in Bryant Park with an iced coffee was enough. Doing that thing where I stare at people’s shoes. Taking in the quirky and over the top and eccentric alongside the minimalist and reserved and subtle. Standing on a subway platform with my heels in hand and watching a model remove the makeup from her face. It gave me a chance to experiment with my own choices. To find new combinations for things that had been sitting in my closet for ages. I complained and griped and seriously considered throwing my eyeliner on an open flame much as I had contemplated burying my Calculus textbook years earlier, but it was all part of the learning experience. The complete and total breakdown that sometimes occurs before epiphany.
And so I miss it. I can sit in my leggings and eat snacks and watch shows with my computer on my lap, but it doesn’t compare to the energy that flows through a space as the lights dim and then rise again. I don’t smell the just applied coat of paint.
My ears don’t ring from the ferocity of the bass.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Romper Room
When I look at what people are wearing as they pass me by, I am culling information. Noticing how they put together their outfits. Storing away compelling combinations. Judgments are not the first things to form. Yet because of this blog and the sometimes strong personal opinions that I present here, I've been to more than one gathering where someone has mentioned that they spent longer thinking about what to wear because they knew that I would be present.
No one need worry. I have not titled myself judge, jury, and executioner. However, there are some wardrobe choices that I can’t help but judge. Tights worn as pants. Leggings worn as pants. Jeggings. Items that look like someone simply lifted the pattern from the 1980s. I could come up with a few more if I gave myself time, but the list wouldn't grow much in length.
The arrival of the sun and its long, luxurious days has forced another into my view.
I don't know who decided that rompers should become a viable option for females over the age of eight. I had rompers at one point in my life. I probably dirtied them rather easily as I had a liking for digging holes and playing with worms at a young age. But then I grew up and out of clothes meant to compliment diapers and pigtails and ringlets and playgrounds.
Even with the infantilizing nature of rompers (or playsuits if one wants to leave no doubt that you have stolen your outfit from a four year old), my distaste would be moot if I'd ever seen anyone look even mediocre in one. The issue with any one-piece item, but especially those involving a pants-like element, is that rare is the woman who is the same size on the top and the bottom. That's why finding a bikini sold in a set is nearly impossible. Why almost all suits are offered in separates. Because if bought in one, there will inevitably be one piece that fits perfectly while the other does not.
And above all else, I believe fit is the most important thing. Even more important than not looking like you belong on a swing set.
No one need worry. I have not titled myself judge, jury, and executioner. However, there are some wardrobe choices that I can’t help but judge. Tights worn as pants. Leggings worn as pants. Jeggings. Items that look like someone simply lifted the pattern from the 1980s. I could come up with a few more if I gave myself time, but the list wouldn't grow much in length.
The arrival of the sun and its long, luxurious days has forced another into my view.
I don't know who decided that rompers should become a viable option for females over the age of eight. I had rompers at one point in my life. I probably dirtied them rather easily as I had a liking for digging holes and playing with worms at a young age. But then I grew up and out of clothes meant to compliment diapers and pigtails and ringlets and playgrounds.
Even with the infantilizing nature of rompers (or playsuits if one wants to leave no doubt that you have stolen your outfit from a four year old), my distaste would be moot if I'd ever seen anyone look even mediocre in one. The issue with any one-piece item, but especially those involving a pants-like element, is that rare is the woman who is the same size on the top and the bottom. That's why finding a bikini sold in a set is nearly impossible. Why almost all suits are offered in separates. Because if bought in one, there will inevitably be one piece that fits perfectly while the other does not.
And above all else, I believe fit is the most important thing. Even more important than not looking like you belong on a swing set.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Second Glances
I've spent the past few weeks reassessing Boston.
Maybe it's that I've gotten familiar once more with the city of my birth. Or that the pain of leaving the little home, the little community, that I found myself a part of in Brooklyn has begun to fade into the background. But when I really think about it, neither of these reasons are the biggest factor.
I should have known. Or known better at least. This is a city for fall dressing. I, a native daughter, who almost rationalized buying a pair of elbow-length cashmere gloves because of their color and who has, for the past two months, found herself visiting a pair of Bottega Veneta heeled oxfords that reside in the Barneys shoe department, should have realized. Because before Princeton and London and Clinton Hill, there was this place.
So there are the cardigans and the coats. Young men who actually pull off a bow tie and cardigan combination without looking twee. Cords of all cuts and colors. Mustards and browns and hunter greens. There are tights of plum and gray worn with sweater dresses and woolen miniskirts. Scarves and hats and boots. I often find myself appraising the many pairs during very long bus rides. The wellies and the riding boots and those that lace up. Deep, soft, supple leathers covered with the marks of past winters. On warmer days, people leave their outerwear open. Relishing the last moments before everything has to stay behind the curtain of their coat in order to keep out the chill and the snow.
Boston's season is fall.
And, as such, it is mine.
Maybe it's that I've gotten familiar once more with the city of my birth. Or that the pain of leaving the little home, the little community, that I found myself a part of in Brooklyn has begun to fade into the background. But when I really think about it, neither of these reasons are the biggest factor.
I should have known. Or known better at least. This is a city for fall dressing. I, a native daughter, who almost rationalized buying a pair of elbow-length cashmere gloves because of their color and who has, for the past two months, found herself visiting a pair of Bottega Veneta heeled oxfords that reside in the Barneys shoe department, should have realized. Because before Princeton and London and Clinton Hill, there was this place.
So there are the cardigans and the coats. Young men who actually pull off a bow tie and cardigan combination without looking twee. Cords of all cuts and colors. Mustards and browns and hunter greens. There are tights of plum and gray worn with sweater dresses and woolen miniskirts. Scarves and hats and boots. I often find myself appraising the many pairs during very long bus rides. The wellies and the riding boots and those that lace up. Deep, soft, supple leathers covered with the marks of past winters. On warmer days, people leave their outerwear open. Relishing the last moments before everything has to stay behind the curtain of their coat in order to keep out the chill and the snow.
Boston's season is fall.
And, as such, it is mine.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
But I Love To Watch You Leave
I’ve recently become obsessed with the back of things.
Last week, while drinking a Miller (I know) in a local bar, I sat at an elevated table on an elevated stool. Adjacent to me sat a boy/girl couple quietly playing Scrabble and enjoying a simple Wednesday night date. The girl half had her back to me. She wore a black sleeveless dress. The back dipped low as if she had put on a wrap dress the wrong way. A large, asymmetrical swath of her back was left bare.
The backs of all of my garments are unassuming. Simple. No flash. Everything of interest is kept to the front half. I stopped wearing halters and strapless dresses years ago, tired of fighting with strapless bras that never really worked. My back stayed covered up. But I've come to realize recently that it's not necessarily about flesh versus no flesh. Things are, as always, more complex and nuanced than that.
For a look that says sex without screaming it, all you need is a window of skin and the exposed zipper of this dress by Preen.
The simplicity of the front of this piece by Alexander Wang is complimented by the soft knotting and over-sized keyhole of its back.
This top from Urban Outfitters hides a surprise only revealed when longer hair is swept away.
The geometric shape seen in the back of this dress by Jen Kao draws your eye to the shoulders.
This dress by Sari Gueron is perfection in my eyes.
All legs.
And a little gift as you leave the room.
Photos via, via, via, via
Last week, while drinking a Miller (I know) in a local bar, I sat at an elevated table on an elevated stool. Adjacent to me sat a boy/girl couple quietly playing Scrabble and enjoying a simple Wednesday night date. The girl half had her back to me. She wore a black sleeveless dress. The back dipped low as if she had put on a wrap dress the wrong way. A large, asymmetrical swath of her back was left bare.
The backs of all of my garments are unassuming. Simple. No flash. Everything of interest is kept to the front half. I stopped wearing halters and strapless dresses years ago, tired of fighting with strapless bras that never really worked. My back stayed covered up. But I've come to realize recently that it's not necessarily about flesh versus no flesh. Things are, as always, more complex and nuanced than that.
For a look that says sex without screaming it, all you need is a window of skin and the exposed zipper of this dress by Preen.
The simplicity of the front of this piece by Alexander Wang is complimented by the soft knotting and over-sized keyhole of its back.
This top from Urban Outfitters hides a surprise only revealed when longer hair is swept away.
The geometric shape seen in the back of this dress by Jen Kao draws your eye to the shoulders.
This dress by Sari Gueron is perfection in my eyes.
All legs.
And a little gift as you leave the room.
Photos via, via, via, via
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Heat Wave
The heat has descended upon us, at least for the time being, and on Saturday I was finally able to throw on a dress without layers and tights and jackets and worries.
For that first stretch of warmth, I pulled out a dark blue cotton dress that I bought at The Gap two years ago. The plan for the day was to wander the Brooklyn Flea with a friend. (A place where I, surprisingly, always end up eating and never shopping.) I took a window seat in a nearby coffee shop and waited for my friend to arrive. My iced coffee wasn't long for this world and The Village Voice that had been left by the seat's previous occupant only held my attention intermittently. I spent most of my time trying not to look at the cute boy who took the seat next to mine and watching everyone enjoy the warm weather on the sidewalk in front of me.
Everyone goes a bit crazy during that first warm weekend. Shorts and skirts and tanks are pulled from the recesses of closets and dressers and thrown together in eye-searing combinations. This is why I chose a dress. Simple. Easy. I didn't give myself the chance to throw on every warm weather piece of clothing I own in a hot weather frenzy. No walking shorts with espadrilles with tank top with cropped cardigan with brightly-colored purse with three bangles and a headband. It was time to feel out the warmth. To decide what could be salvaged from last Spring and Summer. To really get down to the business of cleaning out my closet.
Well I would eventually get down to the business of cleaning. I first had to attend to the eye-searing colors in the snow cone I bought from the ice cream truck parked outside of the Flea.
For that first stretch of warmth, I pulled out a dark blue cotton dress that I bought at The Gap two years ago. The plan for the day was to wander the Brooklyn Flea with a friend. (A place where I, surprisingly, always end up eating and never shopping.) I took a window seat in a nearby coffee shop and waited for my friend to arrive. My iced coffee wasn't long for this world and The Village Voice that had been left by the seat's previous occupant only held my attention intermittently. I spent most of my time trying not to look at the cute boy who took the seat next to mine and watching everyone enjoy the warm weather on the sidewalk in front of me.
Everyone goes a bit crazy during that first warm weekend. Shorts and skirts and tanks are pulled from the recesses of closets and dressers and thrown together in eye-searing combinations. This is why I chose a dress. Simple. Easy. I didn't give myself the chance to throw on every warm weather piece of clothing I own in a hot weather frenzy. No walking shorts with espadrilles with tank top with cropped cardigan with brightly-colored purse with three bangles and a headband. It was time to feel out the warmth. To decide what could be salvaged from last Spring and Summer. To really get down to the business of cleaning out my closet.
Well I would eventually get down to the business of cleaning. I first had to attend to the eye-searing colors in the snow cone I bought from the ice cream truck parked outside of the Flea.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Golden Man
Twittering the Oscar arrivals because I sincerely have nothing better to do this evening besides watching Twister on TNT.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Short Hand
I started this twittering thing to follow a friend, but now I'm fully indoctrinated.
Follow my Fashion Week tweets here.
Follow my Fashion Week tweets here.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Tie Games
I readily admit that I know very little about men's clothing. I know what I think they look nice in, but I don't always know why I'm drawn to one particular item over another. But given all that, I'm still going to talk about a picture from this event.
Seriously, what the fuck? Are there no other tie colors besides red and blue gentlemen? Maybe the general public sees this as patriotic or something, but I see it as a sign that you lack a creative mind. Or that you simply choose not to listen to it, which is not a trait I like in my politicians. Are your PR people dressing you? Wait. Don't tell me. I already know the answer. Maybe we can look into some dark plums. Or a hunter green. I would even put up with the dreaded goldenrods that every boy at my college seemed to own.
On a side note, stand up straight Mr. I'm Only President for a Little Bit Longer. It looks like you're trying to bolt before your time is up. And will someone move closer to Jimmy? He's looking a little lost on the end.
Photo via
Seriously, what the fuck? Are there no other tie colors besides red and blue gentlemen? Maybe the general public sees this as patriotic or something, but I see it as a sign that you lack a creative mind. Or that you simply choose not to listen to it, which is not a trait I like in my politicians. Are your PR people dressing you? Wait. Don't tell me. I already know the answer. Maybe we can look into some dark plums. Or a hunter green. I would even put up with the dreaded goldenrods that every boy at my college seemed to own.
On a side note, stand up straight Mr. I'm Only President for a Little Bit Longer. It looks like you're trying to bolt before your time is up. And will someone move closer to Jimmy? He's looking a little lost on the end.
Photo via
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Bunny Ears
I love boys with undone shoes.
My iPod is on the fritz. Well, it has been for months now, but it has gotten to the point where I can't even listen to it. Every time I leave my apartment for the subway, I still throw it into my bag as opposed to one of the books or magazines I have on reserve. This leaves me with 30 minute long subway rides and nothing to do.
I've taken to watching the other people around me. Not staring but observing. On the A last week, I sat across from a boy wearing a black hoodie underneath his gray, distressed leather jacket. After jealously watching him fiddle with his Nano, my eyes fell on his gray Nikes with orange detailing. The laces were placed through the holes in a convoluted pattern that made it appear as if they were barely doing their job of keeping the shoes on his feet. The velcro strap near the toe was attached in such a way that it was still allowed to flap around. At that moment, however, they merely stood at semi-attention.
I looked back up at his face, which was partially obscured by the hands holding the Nano. He was definitely cute. But what I really liked were his shoes. The color. The way they met the hem of his slim-fitting jeans. The laces. Sure, it takes a certain level of anal retentiveness to leave your laces done yet undone in a particular fashion, but I am the queen of anal retentiveness. I favor the clean and polished. The finished. People who work so hard for the opposite intrigue me.
The train pulled into my station. He stayed in his seat as I hopped off to wait for the G and futilely tried to make my iPod produce music.
My iPod is on the fritz. Well, it has been for months now, but it has gotten to the point where I can't even listen to it. Every time I leave my apartment for the subway, I still throw it into my bag as opposed to one of the books or magazines I have on reserve. This leaves me with 30 minute long subway rides and nothing to do.
I've taken to watching the other people around me. Not staring but observing. On the A last week, I sat across from a boy wearing a black hoodie underneath his gray, distressed leather jacket. After jealously watching him fiddle with his Nano, my eyes fell on his gray Nikes with orange detailing. The laces were placed through the holes in a convoluted pattern that made it appear as if they were barely doing their job of keeping the shoes on his feet. The velcro strap near the toe was attached in such a way that it was still allowed to flap around. At that moment, however, they merely stood at semi-attention.
I looked back up at his face, which was partially obscured by the hands holding the Nano. He was definitely cute. But what I really liked were his shoes. The color. The way they met the hem of his slim-fitting jeans. The laces. Sure, it takes a certain level of anal retentiveness to leave your laces done yet undone in a particular fashion, but I am the queen of anal retentiveness. I favor the clean and polished. The finished. People who work so hard for the opposite intrigue me.
The train pulled into my station. He stayed in his seat as I hopped off to wait for the G and futilely tried to make my iPod produce music.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Tents
There are few things that I enjoy more than writing outside. On Monday, after the rain had fled and the last of my beloved tennis was preparing to be played, I found myself sitting in a park in midtown waiting for my colleagues to emerge. Bryant Park. Yes, it was the middle of Fashion Week, and I was wearing heels for once. (I love heels in theory, but I have this weird tall girl, height neurosis that finds me always in flats. Exhibit 1. Exhibit 2.) The anti-fur people were out protesting the Carolina Herrera show. (I don't really support fur, but my recent mantra has been Live and Let Fucking Live. It's part of my Worry Less 12 step program.)
I sidestepped a paparazzo trying to hit on me (he had a ponytail, to which I say nyet) and found a table to wait for them. A woman walked by in a beautiful blue and white maxi dress and a springy blond afro. Effortless in a way that I haven't learned to be yet. Of course when you're as anal retentive as I, effortless doesn't come, well, easily. The Sartorialist stalked the grounds, camera in tow, and I pretended not to see him. It is one of my life goals to wear something worthy of his lens, but Monday was definitely not that day.
With my prop book, The Complete Poems, 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, closed and my venti iced latte sucked dry, I went back to observing the people scurrying around the park.
I am reserved in general. New places and new people make me hide in corners sipping wine, especially when those places are protected by headset wearing gatekeepers. But sometimes my defensive position quickly melts away. And after the initial stomach flips and toe-tapping nervousness, I began to feel comfortable in my own skin. Or, more appropriately, in my seat with complimentary chocolates at the MaxAzria show on Tuesday evening.
I sidestepped a paparazzo trying to hit on me (he had a ponytail, to which I say nyet) and found a table to wait for them. A woman walked by in a beautiful blue and white maxi dress and a springy blond afro. Effortless in a way that I haven't learned to be yet. Of course when you're as anal retentive as I, effortless doesn't come, well, easily. The Sartorialist stalked the grounds, camera in tow, and I pretended not to see him. It is one of my life goals to wear something worthy of his lens, but Monday was definitely not that day.
With my prop book, The Complete Poems, 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, closed and my venti iced latte sucked dry, I went back to observing the people scurrying around the park.
I am reserved in general. New places and new people make me hide in corners sipping wine, especially when those places are protected by headset wearing gatekeepers. But sometimes my defensive position quickly melts away. And after the initial stomach flips and toe-tapping nervousness, I began to feel comfortable in my own skin. Or, more appropriately, in my seat with complimentary chocolates at the MaxAzria show on Tuesday evening.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Judgy Wudgy Was A Bear
I spent most of yesterday sitting in a local cafe poaching their internet because Time Warner Cable is stupid and there was an outage in my area.
I get very little work done when I go there. I eat cupcakes. Sweet, sweet cupcakes. And caffeinate myself. And then I get the fidgets and spend my time smiling at babies and trying to look/not look at cute guys. So while I like to pretend that I'm being productive there, nothing gets accomplished. When I get bored of boys and babies, my little perch provides the perfect place from which to examine people's outfits. I'm on this kick of trying to be less judgmental, but I sometimes find myself shocked back into that behavior. By the sugar station yesterday, a girl stood wearing purple footless tights with a blue t-shirt and flip flops. It wasn't one of those shirts that could maybe sorta pass for a dress if the person were three inches shorter. It was a straight up t-shirt.
I have an issue with leggings/tights being worn as pants. I can accept most things. Okay, that's a lie. I try to accept most things. I'm learning. It's a process. But leggings as pants is one thing that I'll never ever ever be able to abide.
I forced myself to focus on the positive. She had nice legs. And I actually loved the color of the tights. Under a little black dress, or in any other combination but the one she was wearing, they would add a nice punch. As someone who generally looks schlumpy in t-shirts, I was slightly envious of the way hers seemed to look effortless and laid back. I had talked myself back from the edge.
And then she turned around to reveal the t-shirt tucked into a pair of hot pink booty shorts being worn over the tights.
Well at least she wasn't pantsless.
I get very little work done when I go there. I eat cupcakes. Sweet, sweet cupcakes. And caffeinate myself. And then I get the fidgets and spend my time smiling at babies and trying to look/not look at cute guys. So while I like to pretend that I'm being productive there, nothing gets accomplished. When I get bored of boys and babies, my little perch provides the perfect place from which to examine people's outfits. I'm on this kick of trying to be less judgmental, but I sometimes find myself shocked back into that behavior. By the sugar station yesterday, a girl stood wearing purple footless tights with a blue t-shirt and flip flops. It wasn't one of those shirts that could maybe sorta pass for a dress if the person were three inches shorter. It was a straight up t-shirt.
I have an issue with leggings/tights being worn as pants. I can accept most things. Okay, that's a lie. I try to accept most things. I'm learning. It's a process. But leggings as pants is one thing that I'll never ever ever be able to abide.
I forced myself to focus on the positive. She had nice legs. And I actually loved the color of the tights. Under a little black dress, or in any other combination but the one she was wearing, they would add a nice punch. As someone who generally looks schlumpy in t-shirts, I was slightly envious of the way hers seemed to look effortless and laid back. I had talked myself back from the edge.
And then she turned around to reveal the t-shirt tucked into a pair of hot pink booty shorts being worn over the tights.
Well at least she wasn't pantsless.
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