Saving Fashionable Face: The Walk of Shame

          I spent a good bit of my adolescence living vicariously through my sister. She's seven years older than me, so at the gawky age of twelve, there's no one whom I wanted to be more than Jess. She was in high school, and a beast in the marching band's color guard. She had a serious boyfriend, and quickly became a talented part of the art department (which led her to become an even more talented architect). More importantly, she knew about things. She had already experienced the crazy changes I was going through. She had fallen in love, been depressed, went to school dances, and was an expert on all things Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I wanted to be as wise and beautiful and gifted and interesting as she was (and still is), so I started my own intensive study of The Average American Teen. I listened to Jewel and Meredith Brooks through the wall between my sister's room and my own. I watched 90's cinema gold ad nauseum: 10 Things I Hate About You, Clueless, Titanic, Teen Witch, and Coyote Ugly. I read a lot of Seventeen, YM, Elle Girl, and Cosmopolitan, probably more than any twelve year old should be reading.
          It was through all of these movies, magazines, and music that I learned about sex. While I normally was shunned into the kitchen when sex scenes showed up in movies at home, the things watched at sleepovers with friends were another story. Not only would we gape over these scenes with pure curiosity, we would also discuss what had just happened, like scientists dissecting an alien species. Is that what sex is really like? How long does it last, because the play timer said it only took three minutes, flirty banter to finish? Will my hair flow out all Ariel-like onto silk pillows like that? Will he really paint a watercolor of me afterward? As Catholic school girls, the only sex talks we got were of a Mean Girls vein: if you have sex, you will get pregnant and you will die. No one was giving us the facts, let alone talking about the feelings and taboos in between the physical logistics. We were forced to seek out (mostly glamorized) answers on our own.
          One of the many delusions Hollywood introduced to my middle school self was the morning-after image. Obviously having a fulfilling sexual experience transforms you into a goddess overnight. Post-coital bliss spills out of every pore like you're some sexual luminary. Your hair should be featured in a shampoo commercial. Your makeup is, in fact, airbrushed while you sleep. Any clothes you borrow from your late night lover will fit you perfectly in that slouchy oh-look-at-me-I'm-a-seductive-cheetah way and will be completely unsoiled. As you leave his high rise apartment, you'll laugh and toss your hair back, unfazed by a throbbing hangover or worries about STDs. In short, you'll be Julia Roberts.
          Wrong, bitches. 
          The Walk of Shame is called such for a reason, and I was knocked out of my naivete through my own experience. The night before said Walk, I was looking pretty foxy fine. My hair fell in mermaid curls, my smoky eyes would put a Victoria's Secret model to shame, and my pencil-skirt-sheer-blouse-combo was the perfect cocktail of demure and dangerous. Beyonce became my spirit animal guide, whispering how girls run the world into my ear the entire night.
          Unfortunately, I should have remembered the wisdom of Bright Eyes when they crooned, "what was simple in the moonlight, in the morning never is." My mass of hair took on a gravitational pull of its own during the night, sticking up at obtuse angles, with the texture of Marley dreadlocks. My angel eyes were more Jenny Humphrey at that hour, and once I found my clothes in the dim pink glow of Christmas lights (the home decor choice of college students everywhere), I also found they were wrinkled beyond explanation and smelled of sweat, my date's cologne, and the good intentions I once had of spending the night alone. Luckily, I only lived in the next apartment building over, and hoped I could just sneak in unnoticed. I had no such luck; moments after seeing me, my roommate pointed out that my shirt was inside out and I reeked of spilled martini. In the words of Desi Arnaz, I had a lot of 'splainin' to do.
          Personally, I think these morning walks home have been wrongly named. Co-ed sleepovers are nothing to be ashamed of, especially if you're romping around with someone you really like/care about/respect. Mornings-after in my current relationship take a troll-doll-hair-don't-care theme. I rock the bedhead far further than I should, but whatever. Bitches be jealous. However, there are ways to disguise the morning mess if the occasion calls for it, you just have to adhere to the old adage of checking yo'self before you wreck yo'self:
          1.) Pack your sack wisely. I know that evening clutches don't allow much room for extras but you'll be thankful in the morning for thinking ahead and cramming it all in. Advil or any other painkiller is a must; you can't put your blind trust in a guy's medicine cabinet when you really need it. Go to Sephora and get a free atomizer of your favorite perfume to stave off any stale odors in the morning. Bring those baby toothbrushes with the built in toothpaste to freshen your smile, and a hair tie (or four, in my case) to wrangle the bird's nest built overnight. And, for all that is good and holy, pack a pair of clean underwear. Nothing makes you feel like you're maintaining a sliver of dignity more than a fresh pair of boy shorts.
           2.) Choose your date night attire wisely. A smokey eye can be just as expertly executed with brown, taupe, and gold without the raccoon-esque consequences. Try a hairstyle that reigns your locks in before the running of the bulls begins. A ponytail, top knot, french twist, or fishtail braid are classic looks that will go with any outfit, hold up while sleeping (or, not sleeping) and show off that wonderful, expansive neck that's just asking to be kissed. As for clothing, try and pick a material that doesn't wrinkly easily, such as rayon or poly/cotton blends. However, I wouldn't stress out too much because you can always...
          3.) Steal. The Boyfriend Look was made for a reason. T-shirts are always a good choice; they dress down a date skirt and maintain that favorite boy scent well past the first wash. Jeans are a little trickier but have a major casual payoff. Pair with a belt or tie and you could rock a seriously chic paper bag waist for the walk home. Flannels are another workable item, especially if they're long enough to wear as a tunic with your leggings from the night before.
          4.) Take a shower. Whether it's three minutes or a luxurious half-hour, a little fresh water makes one appear bright eyed and bushy tailed. Plus, boys normally don't own hair dryers so your wet mane might convince onlookers that you bathed in the comfort of your own Hello Kitty themed shower. Maybe.
          5.) Downplay the Donna Summers. Take off any item that screams disco queen. Stash all jewelry in pockets. Pull your hair into a low ponytail that any door-to-door Bible saleswoman would be proud of. Steal a sweater to wear instead of your dressy peacoat. Pack the fishnets into your purse. If at all possible, pick up a coffee on the way home. You want it to appear that you rise with the sun and have no room for late night encounters in your life, so pick up a fresh croissant while you're at it. And last but certainly not least...
          6.) Smile. If they're going to talk, let them. You know what you're doing and you are in control of your life.  If you're happy, be happy. Ain't no shame, lady. Do your thang.

Exposed Back

          It's about time that I come clean to all of you. No matter how hard I try to hide it, I have to admit that I have an unhealthy obsession. People don't understand why this vice affects me the way it does, why I attach myself to it every chance I can. It makes me feel emotions that similar substances have failed to bring to me, joy, love, excruciating sadness, and hope. I run to it in both times of grief and happiness, often using it alone or with an intimate group of friends. Try as I might to wean myself off of it, I can't stop. I have decided that a life with this obsession is better than any life without it.
          Yes, fawns, I have an obsession with the movie Atonement.
          It started innocently enough, really. I saw the beautifully designed posters hanging in the local movie megaplex and was instantly intrigued. When I found out it was based off of a book, I knew there was no going back. Ian McEwan became $16.00 richer the very next afternoon as I quickly walked out of the bookstore, eager to start this literary gem. The book is quite possibly the only thing more beautiful than the movie. The language McEwan uses is poetic, the sensual imagery actually transporting you to another world: you can taste the cocktails Cecilia and her brother drink in the afternoon by the pool, you experience the pain of Mrs. Tallis' migraines, you feel each and every spine of the books in the family library when Robbie-- well, I don't want to give everything away. I was almost afraid to watch the movie, convinced the director was going to defile an almost perfect piece of literature because it happens all the time. One night when I was feeling particularly adventurous I popped in the DVD, and gripped the popcorn bowl in anticipation of what I just knew would be a failure.
          Thankfully, I was completely wrong. The adaption blew me away. The director stuck to the novel like myself on a Cinnabon.  The cast was both incredibly talented and enviously attractive; it's almost criminal to put both Keira Knightly and James McAvoy in a movie together (almost). However, what affected me the most was the costuming.  During most movies, I'm ruthless with my criticisms on the costume design, finding one (or many, many more) choices that just don't work with the plot, character, or time period.  Atonement left me speechless. There was not one piece of clothing that didn't fit, not one detail that was out of place. There were moments when I would pause the film to study what the character was wearing more closely. For example, a good seven to twelve minutes are devoted to when Robbie wears a tux... and when he wears his army uniform... and, well, when he's really wearing anything. The pièce de résistance of the movie was That Dress. Even if you haven't seen the movie, you have to know which dress I'm talking about, the silky, green, backless dress Cecilia wears to the dinner party. That dress caused a lot of emotions in this fashionista's heart. It wasn't just a piece of clothing, it was a game changer, a catalyst to the night that followed. While I'm certain Robbie would have come clean about his adoration for Cecilia that evening even if she would have been wearing a set of pastel long johns, the dress seduced him from the moment she opened the door. It won me over as well, transforming into the biggest fan of the exposed back. 
          I love exposed backs for the fact that they are thrilling for both the wearer and all those who follow her lead (as they naturally should). The back is an extremely overlooked body part. The fashion universe has been enamoured with low necklines, short skirts, high slits, and bare shoulders for quite some time. And I'm not saying that it shouldn't be panting because every aspect of the body has a reason to be celebrated. However, it seems to be more and more expected for a woman to show off one or more of these areas on a daily basis. V-neck tee shirts have become so normal that a crew neck now looks a bit prudish on a female. A few years back when walking shorts were on trend, most women didn't know what to do with all of that extra fabric near their knees.  Maxi skirts are now being made out of sheer fabrics, revealing a barely-there mini underneath. Showing skin has become commonplace. But if you think about it from a square-footage area, the back may be the largest expanse of skin one could show without vulgarity, with the exception of a pair of legs in shorts (which, with the popularity of Daisy Dukes, can get pretty trashy) and a bikini-clad bod (and we all know how everyday those can be). A backless top or dress can leave a woman with anywhere between one-half to two-and-a-half feet of bareness showing, without even the slightest chance for a nip slip.
         The back itself is pretty sexy. Think about how a back moves. It can be almost serpentine, depending on how a woman walks away from you. Even when she's standing up straight the curves of her musculature and the slight sway of the lower back show depth and definition. Consider the stereotypical post-sex-scene shot. There are usually one of two ways a woman can be shown. Our leading lady could be sitting up in bed, sheets pulled up around her chest and under her arms, and eating a bagel and cream cheese, making some witty comment or another about the evening to her bed fellow. Alternatively, she could be lying languidly on her stomach, her naked back stealing the attention of the shot, the rumbled sheets pulled down to there. She props herself up on her elbows, dreamily considering what she will do (or not do) for the rest of the day while her lover is still catching his breath and looking for the mind that he lost. Both are pretty provocative but one is definitely more confident, more powerful.
         That's what this look is all about, really: power and strength. On a physical level, one has to stand up straight when wearing a backless number. There's no alternative in this situation. First, who wants to see a shlumpy spine emerging out from the opening, all hunched over like Gollum in his little hovel? Last time I checked, LOTR wasn't a big inspiration at NYFW. Plus, without perfect posture and clothes hanger shoulders, that top you're so proud of is going to topple off. It will be the sophomore homecoming dance all over again: you wore that spaghetti strap gown that you really didn't have the chest to fill out (but convinced yourself you did) and spent all of dinner, pictures, and the Cupid Shuffle pulling those skinny suckers back up into place. Not only will a straight stance help keep your look together, you appear slimmer, engage your abdomen muscles throughout the day, and look as lithe and ethereal as Audrey Hepburn and Princess Grace's lesbian lovechild. And really, who doesn't want that?
          Beyond muscular endurance, it takes emotional and mental strength to wear an exposed back. There are a lot of sayings that link the back to danger. "I've got your back," and "cover your back" mean you either have or need to procure some sort of protection, possibly to prevent being "stabbed in the back". It takes a rebel to wear a backless piece. There is a devil-may-care attitude about you. You don't care what others think about what you're wearing, or what they may want to with it. Contrary to my beliefs, there are many people who think that showing that much skin in one unexpected area is much too scandalous for any setting outside of the bedroom. You have to be daring enough to endure the dirty looks, whispered criticisms, and atrocious cat calls you might receive. For a girl as headstrong as you, these don't phase you at all. Those petty people are quite literally behind you, and you have much better things to do than worry about what others think.

Graphic Tees

          College activities coordinators are manipulative little bitches. Every morning during my undergraduate career, I would wake up to a poorly arranged and badly written campus announcement email that tried to entice me to come to root beer floats in the quad/walk-a-thon for chinchillas' rights/pre-season kick-off to the countdown to March Madness. These messages hoped to take advantage of my pre-caffeine reasoning skills, thinking I'd sleepily add the event to my Google calendar, or at least half-heartedly scribble a reminder on my shaky hand. Nine times out of ten, I'd drag them straight to my trash folder, considering my Say Yes to the Dress marathon the only thing worthy of my Wednesday night. Unfortunately, the coordinators weren't easily dismissed. Emails would continue to flood my inbox at seventeen minute intervals, paper reminders would pour out of my post office box, and obnoxiously colored posters would hang precariously over stairwells, screaming at me in 64-point Comic Sans. Soon my own mind started working for the dark side, subliminally slipping the event in between my daydreams: "You know what would be better than catching up on all of that sleep you've missed while working on your Senior Seminar? A belly dancing lesson." I'd end up fleeing to my room, blast mind-numbing techno pop, and burn some strong incense, anything to get my brain to stop obsessing. Then, a knock on my door. It's my housemate demanding that I shake off my funk and come to the discussion on possible life on Neptune because they're giving away free tee shirts.
          See? Such a bitch move. These big wigs know that no college kid with a sound mind would pass up a free tee shirt. Not only does it give a broke kid a reason to put off shelling out quarters for laundry for at least one more day (two if you're seeing different people each day and don't get Taco Night all over yourself), it's also proof that you participated. You were a part if something that other people were a part of, you were a member of a community, a part of the scene. It doesn't matter that in three weeks, you'll probably forget who was hypnotized or what big cat is facing endangerment; college students are focused on the moment. They carpe the shit out of that diem. 
          The problem soon becomes sartorial. Your laundry basket is overflowing with Soffee, Hanes, and Alternative Apparel, all of them some sad shade of white, cream, or gray. Outfits that were once only deemed workout appropriate are now A Look. Soon, you're constantly donning a ponytail, eating frozen pizza nightly, and thinking this season's Saturday Night Live is actually funny (sorry, that was rude... frozen pizza is pretty damn delicious). I speak from experience. I had some majorly rough moments, especially in my junior year and the more depressed I became, the more I resorted to the graphic tee. It got so bad that one morning I told my housemate Carrie to ask me if I was still wearing the shirt I slept in to class. 
          Because I was.
          Long story short, I rediscovered not only how to be happy but also my large collection of sundresses. I continued to watch my classmates drift through their days in jersey, advertising the 2009 crab feast where everyone came down with food poisoning. I wonder if they want to wear that, or if it's only out of ease? Does the shirt make them feel good, is it a true representation of who they are stylistically? Do they care, and if not, why? I know it sounds kind of loony, me worrying about people based on their casual wear but clothes are much more than just clothes. You can't participate in most things without being clothed (unless indecent exposure is your jam). Clothing is necessary and if you have to do something, why wouldn't you have a little fun with it? 
          Enough philosophy, back to the shirts. Even though I mostly limited my tee shirt wearing to yoga class, I still managed to come home with four suitcases full of graphic gear. And there they still sit, six months after graduation, folded neatly in my Samsonites. With a possible change in location on my horizon, I decided now is the perfect time to let some of them go the way of the Goodwill. The clotheshorse in me weeps, feeling nostalgia in their fibers but the true fashionista knows when to edit her wardrobe. Here are a few tips I used to scale down my collection:

1.) Only keep what really, really means something to you. 
      For me, this included band tees, concert tees, yoga tanks, shirts I made myself, and anything with really killer artwork. These are the aspects of my life I want people to know about. I can't leave a show without buying a tee shirt, it's a medical condition or something. Usually the design on these are pretty wicked, and they're always good conversation starters: "You were at the Hall & Oates revival tour?? So was I! Let's be best friends!" Yoga's become a major part of my life, and you can't just dump a major part of your life in a roadside bin. Figure out what's important to your life, explains who you are, and keep those tops. Just don't fall into the everything-has-affected-me-in-some-major-way-and-therefor-I-am-keeping-it-all hole. You really don't need that DARE shirt from eleventh grade to remind you not to do drugs.

2.) Only keep what flatters your body.
     Mass-produced tees come in massively misunderstood sizing. Normally, everything is a men's cut, which will look boxy on a petite girl. If this is the case, either pitch it or find a way to make it work for your body. An oversized shirt from that remarkable MOMA show could look awesome with liquid leggings. Pair a baby tee with a maxi skirt at your waist to take it from pre-teen to pretty. If you can't find a way to manipulate it for your form, have no fear. You could always...

3.) DIY, if necessary.
     Some of you might not be able to take the plunge and fully relieve yourself of your tee shirts. I understand, really. However, that doesn't mean that you have to wear them either. Make a blanket, or some pillows, or really hip pulled necklaces. There's a reason Pinterest exists, my dear bucks and does. Type in "tee shirt DIY", break out the scissors, pop in a romantic comedy, and settle in for a most excellent crafternoon.

4.) Reward yourself for your donation.
     Tell yourself that for every ten/twenty/fifty tee shirts you give away, you will reward yourself with one epic new piece for your wardrobe. Just make sure it's not another damn graphic tee.

5.) Know that just having the memories and stories is okay.
     I heard a really great quote the other day about how in today's world that's always plugged into some social network or other, people are more worried about how things look when they should be concerned about how things feel. If and when you go to these events, try and take in all the experience has to offer. Talk to other people there, really listen to the speaker, laugh at the comedian, relish in the fact that you get to be here, in the moment with others. The feeling of community will give you more satisfaction than any shirt ever could.

The Female Body

          I hold true to the idea that one of the main reasons women hate their bodies so much is because we refer to our shapes in such lackluster terminology. Apple, ruler, inverted triangle? I mean, who really wants to be an inverted triangle? Who struts around feeling good about herself, knowing that everyone sees her as an inverted triangle? Answer: no one. That certain term has no love behind it, no appreciation for the warm form in question. The only body conscious vocabulary I've heard extolled in everyday conversation is the ever-coveted hourglass. And this is because women with hourglass shapes are foxy fine. But let's face the facts: every body shape is foxy fine. Seriously. 
          The female body is a wonder, full in peaks and valleys, with plenty of places to rest your hands for a while. In the many conversations I've had with the opposite sex on the topic of which shape looks best on a girl, the answer has almost always been unanimous: they just like girls. Period. All types, all shapes, all sizes. However, the girl does get bonus brownie points if she's confident in her skin, having a devil-may-care-I-do-what-I-want attitude. This girl eats bacon cheeseburgers while wearing leather pants and listening to One Direction on Spotify and not giving a damn who sees it on her Facebook. I'm not saying that being That Girl is easy. It's not. It takes practice in both self-indulgence and self-love. I know it sounds cheesy but really? The foundation for finding That Girl in you is how you treat yourself, how talk about yourself, how you compare yourself to others. 
          I understand the reasoning behind the body shape similes. It's easy to compare how certain areas of your body carry weight to how certain everyday objects look. Rulers are straight up and down. Pears hold most of their deliciousness in the lower part of the fruit. Hourglasses have 36 grains of sand in their upper half, 24 grains falling in the middle section, and 36 grains in the bottom. But why these items? They're so dull, dumpy, and unappealing. They're ordinary, and no woman should ever feel as if she's ordinary. I'm enacting a revolution, a redrafting of the confines in which we categorize the female form. Here are the candidates I'm pulling for:

Old Term: Ruler
Shape: Straight frame, shallow curvature, narrow hips and shoulders, delicate limbs
New Term: Kit Kat Bar
          "Mmm... Break me off a piece of THAT Kit Kat Bar..."

Old Term: Pear
Shape: Curvier lower stomach, hips, and thighs, usually has narrower shoulders and a small chest
New Term: Juicy (because, hello, that's what a pear is)
          "Juicy fruit is just what I was hungry for..."

Old Term: Inverted Triangle
Shape: Wide shoulders, tapering down the body into a straight waist, and narrow hips and thighs
New Term: Sugar Cone
          "I'd like to put some ice cream on top of THAT Sugar Cone..."

Old Term: Hourglass
Shape: Larger busts and shoulders, itty bitty waist, full hips, thighs, and bottom
New Term: Hourglass (this is one instance where the term ain't broke, so I ain't fixin' it)
          "I'd turn that Hourglass over and over and over again..."

Old Term: Busty
Shape: Voluptuous chest, straight lower half
New Term: Twin Pop (because your twins? They're popping.)
          "I'm not splitting that Twin Pop with anyone. She's all mine..."

Old Term: Apple
Shape: Holds weight around the middle torso, and hips and bust are roughly the same measurement
New Term: Rubenesque
          "That girl's a work of art... a Rubenesque masterpiece!"

          Now, I can see how some might find these terms a little offensive (especially with the borderline-pervy-old-man-three-beers-in comments I provided) but do you see what I'm trying to get at here? It's all about semantics. What you call yourself reflects on how you feel about yourself, which in turn reflects how other people see you. If you don't like my terms, choose some of your own! Just make sure they stay positive. The female body has taken a beating in the past few decades, and it's about time to take pride in the shapes we were born to fill. And while I am all about dressing for your shape and your proportions, you also have to dress for how you feel. I've come across a lot of magazines telling me I should be wearing fuller, A-line skirts if I'm concerned with my thighs. However, I've come to terms with the fact that I have a pretty great ass, and great asses look even better in pencil skirts. So, whatever Issue 54. I'm much more of a Joan than a Betty at heart, anyway.

Sweatpants

          In case you are one of the few people I haven't complained to in the past forty-eight hours, you should know that I had all four wisdom teeth removed early Wednesday morning. I spent the week leading up to the surgery incessantly worrying about everything and anything that could go wrong. One moment I'd be scared that the anesthetist would give me too much of the good stuff and knock me out permanently, the next I'd make up this scenario that he wouldn't give me enough, and therefor leaving me the ability to feel every little slice and dice but not the needed muscle function to tell someone about this serious mistake (much like Hayden Christianson in the poorly-received film Awake). Despite my rampant imagination, the operation went as smoothly as original Jif.  I floated home afterwards, high as a kite floating on cotton gauze clouds. Internally, I scolded myself for being so scared, saying, "Silly, Jojo. That wasn't painful at all! And now, you get to eat all of the rainbow sherbet!"
          Getting to eat all of the technicolor desserts comes with a cost, more commonly known as hating your own existence.  That excruciating pain people had warned me about came on immediately after I pulled the packings from my mouth. It was as if my entire face exploded within the confines of my skin. My cheeks resembled those of the blob fish, and I somehow had acquired Kanye West's lips. I was convinced for the longest time that I had no tongue, that the surgeon decided my life would be somehow better without it. I was crying, snotty, inconsolable. In short, I was exactly what I imagined I would be like post-op. Luckily, I have the best mom in the entire world. She eased my worried heart, made me delicious, mushy squash, broke up my medication into applesauce when I couldn't open my mouth wide enough to swallow it, and helped me into the comfiest clothing any bed rest patient could desire.
          For the first few days, I was pleased as punch with my sweatpants-graphic tee-grandpa sweater uniform. It was effortless and easy, fairly warm, and transitioned well into functioning as pajamas whenever my vicodin decided to knock me out. This morning however, something felt different. As I slipped on a pair of pink cropped sweatpants and a college sweatshirt, a shudder went through my bones. I sat down in the same chair I had been sitting in for the past two days, hot tea in hand... and I felt gross. I reasoned that this is what moss must feel like: stagnant, forgotten, and laying in filth. The arsenal of fashion magazines I had stockpiled next to me wasn't helping. Here I was, ice packs strapped to both sides of my face, thermal blanket on high, numerous pill bottles within shaky hand's reach, looking at picture after picture of poised perfection. Women were glowing with flawless complexions, wearing size zero designer gowns, casually posed at a cocktail party as if this was the kind of thing they did in these kinds of outfits all of the time (which was probably true).  I was beginning to feel extremely worthless until I took notice of their teeth, or rather the fact that they still had all of them.  They hadn't just gone through the pain, confusion, and shock that I had endured. The biggest pain these ladies felt  probably came from their Spanx or stilettos.  It was at this moment that I decided sweatpants had a greater purpose than I had recently thought. Sweatpants were made for all of those going through hardship and strife, the bodies and hearts experiencing some type of turmoil.
          It sounds a little melodramatic, I know, but let's look at the basic function of sweatpants. Sweatpants were originally created for the athlete. They're made out of a heavy jersey material and have simple construction, normally incorporating a drawstring and elastic banding. An athlete wears sweatpants to protect his or her muscles. Before practice, sweatpants perform the way a sleeping bag does for a body with hypothermia: it contains the legs and slowly warms the muscles, preparing them for the coming physical activity. After practice, sweatpants are worn to keep the muscles warm, allowing them to slowly relax down to resting temperature, similar to a cool down stretch. Some readers may be unable to connect sports to turmoil but let me try and illustrate it for you: you're covered in sweat, your heart is pounding, your lungs are gasping for a few restful breaths, your thighs/arms/abs/ass feel like they are on fire, and as you glance at your watch, you realize you still have forty-four minutes left in your workout. See the tortures now?
          Another scenario where sweatpants get a fashion pass is if you've experienced a recent breakup. They say the best way to get over someone is to keep busy: go out for drinks with your friends, get a new haircut, join a club, visit loved ones, do some yoga, etc. etc. Having been through a few pretty rough breakups, I've found the best way to get over someone is in a pair of sweatpants, drinking pink lemonade vodka straight from the bottle, watching Serendipity over and over and over again, and passing out in the shower. Okay, maybe this isn't the best way to get over someone but it is the best way to forget about... well, everything for a bit. In this instance, sweatpants aren't preparing the body for work but are providing a pillow for the broken spirit, and bonus! The drawstring can be adjusted to every cupcake consumed, constantly assuring you that, no, you don't look fat. In fact, you've never looked better, sunshine. 
          A lot of people assume I have some sort of vendetta against sweatpants. I rarely wear them, even when I am sick, sticking to loose skirts or oversized sweaters and leggings instead. This is an unfounded assumption, as can be seen in my argument for sweatpants above. The people I do have beef with are those who abuse the poor jersey leg wear, the ones who choose jogging gear over any other piece of clothing. If you've ever stepped onto a college campus, you know the perpetrators I'm talking about. Those girls who wear neon green, cropped sweatpants with a sassy saying splayed across the butt, a matching velour track jacket, and Uggs. Always Uggs. The male offenders are almost as bad, wearing their sweatpants low-slung, some worn-out sports tee on top, and either flip-flops or moccasins. And it's not as if they wear this type of ensemble once. Once I'd be able to allow, twice even, if it was finals week. But no, these people wear these get-ups all the freaking time. I don't know if they understand the fundamental rule of dress: wearing oversized clothes doesn't make you look skinny; it makes you look sloppy. Being a recent college graduate myself, I understand that it's an incredibly stressful four years and some days comfort outweighs the need to be chic. For those days, there are tons of alternative things to wear. Yoga pants are one of God's many gifts to women. They're hecka stretchy, enduring any strange late-night-studying-in-the-library-lounge pose you could force them into. Also, they conform to your shape, showing the world you haven't lost your feminine curves without being nearly as constricting as jeggings. For your upper half, french terry is a beautiful alternative. It's lighter than normal sweatsuit material, and lays flatter on the body much like a tee shirt. Plus, many retail stores have been producing super hip, printed pullovers made with french terry. Tres chic, non? And for the Black Card Members out there, the option of cashmere is always available. I mean, if it was between a PINK sweatshirt or a J. Crew cashmere sweater, we all no there would be no competition. Although most are machine washable, when you are considering slipping into some sweats, always handle your decision with the utmost care.  

Tights

          There is an incredibly popular, albeit incredibly overused saying that bluntly proclaims karma's a bitch. Now, being the girl that I am who tries to see the best in everything and everyone, I think this is a little harsh. To be perfectly honest, you probably deserved that ketchup on your designer slacks/seventh consecutive parking ticket/infected pedicure because you were a bitch in the first place. In my opinion, I like to think of karma as a wise friend, someone who is not afraid to point out when you're wrong, to show you a world view you might not have been able to see through your prejudiced-colored glasses. 
          You see, this weird thing happens all the time between me and karma. Sometimes, I'll speak without thinking, judging something before really experiencing and appreciating it. Let's use handmade ukuleles as an example. I'll be in a conversation with an unsuspecting fan of these teeny guitars, and all of a sudden lash out irrationally and say, "Good God! I hate handmade ukuleles! I hate their size, I hate that tinny sound they make, I hate that they remind me of Hawaii, I hate the hipster kids who play them like a poor man's Zooey Deschanel. I hate everything about handmade ukuleles." This is where karma gets me good. Karma lets me go on hating handmade ukuleles for a little bit longer, normally between four to six months. Then, without warning or explanation, BAM. I become obsessed with them. I can't get enough handmade ukuleles. I listen to Iz on repeat day in and day out. I buy a miniature case for my own instrument so I can tote it around with me everywhere like a small dog. While my new obsession might be a bit... well, obsessive in the beginning, I will be proven once again that unfounded criticisms are no fun, or to borrow the words of another popular saying, "don't knock it until you've tried it."
          Karma knows no limits. Music, people, flavors of cream cheese, and (obviously) fashion. This is how I came to love tights. If you know me now, you'd think I was born with a pair of tights on. My legs are patterned, colored, or caught in a fishnet on a regular basis (and by regular basis I mean 6.5 days out of the week). I have approximately three pairs of jeans and seventeen pairs of tights. In the winter, one might assume I'd throw on some sweats and call it a day. False: I layer four pairs of tights and make that day my bitch. Surprisingly, this is not how it always was with my wardrobe. 
          When I was a very little lady, my mom would go all out on the outfits I wore to Sunday school. I called them my dancing-one-dresses and pretty-girl-shoes, for both the way that they made me feel and how the dresses blossomed out when I spun around in the sanctuary's lobby. Unfortunately, the ensemble a pretty girl wears (especially one prone to spontaneous dancing) is not made for the rambunctious activity of Sunday school, which is pretty much religious recess. There's running, jumping, duck-duck-goosing, cross-legged story time, ten second clean up, and a lot of that spinning until you wanted to puke that was previously mentioned. A little angel needed protection against any situation that may deem her unladylike and crude. A little angel needed tights.
          My six-year-old self begged to differ. I would do anything possible to get out of wearing an entire rainbow of Little L'eggs. Cry, lie that they didn't fit my chubby thighs, purposefully cause runs with a Lisa Frank pencil, soak them in a flammable liquid and cackle over the nylon/Lycra blend blaze (okay, I didn't really do that last one but would have had I the common household chemicals in the proper proportions). Tights may serve a purpose, and can even turn a tot into a trendsetter but let's be real: they're tight and itchy. On paper, they prove to be a woman's worst nightmare, and the nightmares children experience can echo into adulthood. Luckily, I said those beautiful three words early on in my youth: I hate tights. 
          I've been a changed woman ever since. I think tights are the leg wear to end all other leg wear. They can take a summer dress and make it acceptable for colder weather. They use the large expanse of skin on your legs to the fullest advantage. Recently, hand-painted tights have made a big splash on the scene, taking the patterned version to one of artistic talent. They are able to start conversations, having people asking where you bought them or how adventurous and fun they are, how only a fashion maven could pull them off successfully (which you are, and you do). Colored tights add that pop to an otherwise neutral outfit. A little black dress goes from classic to contemporary when you pair it with a neon purple or on-trend emerald nylon. Fishnets have been synonymous with foxy and fierce ever since they tangled around women's thighs in the late 1960s. One advertisement during that time claimed fishnets gave leg "more leg." My personal favorite type of leg wear is the thigh high. Held up by the slightly taboo but super sexy garter belt, thigh highs are the poster children for decadence. Every time I wear a pair, I feel incredibly powerful. While some assume that the modern use of thigh highs and garters is contained to the bedroom, I like to think of it as my own secret to share: I could show them off, or I could keep them to myself; the choice is entirely in my own hands.  Tights and nylons aren't just for the super femmes, either. Sometimes, I'll pair mine with my knee-high lace up boots, transforming cute or couture into kick-ass.  Tights can also give you that extra-coverage you need if the dress you bought for weekend clubbing is just a bit short for weekday club-sandwiches (I'm looking at you, Forever XXI). However, if you just can't wrap your mind around the idea of wrapping your legs in hosiery, do what the rationing fashion rebels did in the 1940s: draw a seam down the back of your calves with waterproof eyeliner. Legs for days, without the L'eggs.

Halloween

          True Life: I Celebrate Everything. In my opinion, there are more than enough people who's sole directive in life is to bring the party down. They stand in the dim corner, arms crossed, complaining about the shitty beer/music/decor (which really isn't all that shitty). You can spot these types from miles away: permanent scowl, shifty eyes, the smell of cynicism wafting around like a storm cloud. Fortunately for all of my friends, I am the exact opposite. I'm the girl throwing this extravagant, metaphorical party. I'm buying the crepe paper, balloons, and color-coordinating cups and plates. I'll spend hours baking the three-tiered theme cake. You'll leave my party covered in glitter, and digging through your own personalized goodie bag. And why shouldn't I go to all of that hypothetical trouble? Even though we are constantly bombarded with news of bombs and breakups, disease and destruction every day, I like to keep in mind just how lovely everything can be, and share this rare knowledge. You won the lottery? Time to break out the Dance Party Mix! Got the dream job? No Hamburger Helper for you tonight! We're going out for Stuffed Crust! You scored my favorite, thinly sliced bread 2-for-1? Come upstairs. My lingerie drawer has plans for you.

          All this taken into consideration, the months of October, November, December, and January are chock full of reasons to celebrate. The changing scenery, the new stock of knitwear in department stores, the colder weather (which leads to great things like cuddling, hot chocolate, and electric blanket forts), and pumpkin-flavored everything. In addition to all of these beauties, there are also so many holidays during this time. Most of them are days meant to be spent with your family, sipping on noggy adult beverages, eating a delicious home-cooked meal, opening presents, watching parades and dog shows, and thinking about all of your blessings. One of them asks only that you get dressed up, devour candy, and get incredibly weird.

          This is why I love Halloween. What other holiday places more importance on what you wear, and how convincingly you pull off said look? Easter? Memorial Day? Valentine's Day? (Well, I guess that depends on your interpretation of "pull off said look"...) I don't think so.

          Halloween fires up my fashion creativity in ways everyday dressing could only dream of. I don't normally resort to the pre-packaged, party store creations. While they might be great for guys and children, women and mainstream costume design seem to be at odds as to what Halloween is about. For example, a woman might think, "Yo, I just want to be Little Red Riding Hood. I need a dope cape and a cute little basket. Maybe some Mary Janes." Unfortunately, the costume designer normally interprets this request as, "Tits. I want to show them off." And for some ladies, this is fine, this is exactly what they want to wear. At night. In the middle of fall. When they will probably be outdoors for a significant amount of time. And I'm not going to say I don't like a good, sexy costume. I do. A lot of my recent Halloween personas have had a touch of the ha-cha-cha. I'm just saying there are ways in which a girl can do this without involving latex, which is why I think it best to search for costume elements that fit your own style, comfort level, and body proportions. I'm sorry but poorly made Sexy Paramedic was not meant for a pear shape. Or any shape, really.

          Another way Halloween can really push the style envelope is through which costume you choose. If you go with a pop culture reference, it gives you the room to play dress up in your favorite icon's closet. This can then lead to personal style exploration outside of October 31st. While pretending to be so-and-so, did you find his or her sense of flair comfortable? Could you work those elements into everyday wear? If you choose a fantastical or horrific costume, you have to stretch your imagination beyond any realistic expectations: how do I take this denim jacket, silk scarf, and felt beret and transform it into a kick-ass shewolf costume? My favorite type of costume is the clever costume. Not only do you have to find the parts, put them all together, and then have people understand the joke, you have to first come up with the concept, which takes major cojones. I was going to dress up as Hip Bones this year but ran out of time. The costume consisted of a skeleton costume, paired with Ray Ban glasses, a floppy knitted beanie, an iPod full of Fleet Foxes, and a bored expression. Good God, sometimes I crack myself up... 

          However, as with any outfit, the most important thing to keep in mind is not what you're wearing but how you are wearing it. No one is going to believe you're Honey Boo Boo if you don't commit to the unpredictable head-bobbing and dizzying accent. You're not a panda bear unless you eat everything at the party, and then fall asleep. And if you want to dress up as a wizard, you better be trying to levitate me at some point. This year I went as Black Swan but knew the look wouldn't be complete without my White Swan counterpart, and murderous gaze (as seen above).

          I've been to some pretty lame Monster Mashes, full, of attendees who just didn't understand the wonder, the whimsy that is getting dressed as someone else for the night. They had no imagination, no spunk, and were just there to get drunk. In other words, they were Halloweenies. And in my world, Halloweenies don't get candy. Dress up, get candy, be awesome.

Uniforms

          One of the (many) things I thank my parents for is sending me to private Catholic schooling for thirteen years.  Not only did I receive an exemplary education in small sized classes and met some of my closest friends, I was also forced to wear incredibly conservative uniforms. I already know what you are thinking: "Why would anyone want to wear a Catholic school uniform for even one day, let alone 3, 380 days?" And when put in those large of terms, it does sound pretty horrendous. The Catholic school uniform has received a bad reputation for numerous reasons. On the one hand, it has been seen as a demarcation of the well-to-do, the thought being that only the wealthy can afford private academies. On the other hand, Catholic school girls have the luck of being seen as particularly promiscuous, compliments of both the beautiful Britney Spears and Nabokov's lovely Lolita. Unfortunately, the guy's uniform didn't provide that great of an impression either. The tie, button-down, and dress slacks said you owned a yacht, played lacrosse on the regular, and were obsessed with your dental hygiene. Add a cardigan to that ensemble and you are dating someone incredibly popular. I mean, what if Ginger/Poppy/Michelle gets cold in Latin class? It would be in poor taste not to have something to offer her.
          Fortunately, I am here to bust through those antiquated stereotypes. I was neither a trust fund baby nor a tempting tarte. I was an A- student. I played xylophone in the marching band. I was an alto in every chorus I could get into. I was in bed by 11:00 every night, midnight under special circumstances. I was about as wild as a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and liked it that way. However, wearing a uniform ultimately helped me in my path of self-expression. I know, I know, that sounds very New Age of me but be patient. First, by making the decision as to what to wear for me every morning, my uniform allowed me to focus on that things that were really important in the turbulent life of a angsty teenage girl: relationships, books, band practice, the school newspaper, and general tomfoolery. Second, it pushed me to think creatively, editorially about how I was going to dress when I wasn't wearing the uniform. Weirdly two-fold, right? I saw those rare dress down days as Lancaster Catholic Fashion Week. I had a limited amount of time to show off my style, and hell if I was going to waste them; I didn't want to wear the Victoria's-Secret-sweatpants-and-sassy-screen-print-baby-tee that the rest of my classmates were wearing. It seemed like every year I brought a different look to the hallways: preppy, punky, glamorous, classic. My personal style really exploded when I finally reached college and didn't have to worry about limited time for expression. College was all about personality and expression. My friends were amazed at my discipline in dressing well but it only came about through the oppressive years spent in plaid and knee socks. 
          As a recent graduate equipped with a degree in English literature, it is no surprise my current and (somewhat) dead end job requires me to wear a uniform. Now, I'm not going to confess where I work but I will say the wardrobe is not only unflattering but also boring as toast: black shoes, black slacks, white dress shirt... and a tie. Yep, even for the ladies. While some may bitch and complain about the outfit, I took it as a challenge. I thought about how I could express myself within the accepted perimeters. I choose to wear pumps instead of flats, high waisted flares, a pink paisley silk tie, and a dramatic red lip every so often.  Most importantly, I express myself through my attitude; people can tell I'm a stylish biddie even by the way I answer the phone.
          If you are confined to a uniform for school, business, or pleasure (I'm not one to judge what you do when the lights are off, friends...), fear not! There are ways to show exactly who you are and what your vibe is. It could be in the way you style your hair, the stickers you place on your name tag, the cut of your pants, or the pattern on your socks. Or maybe it can be seen in your general swag, your strut, your je ne sais quoi. There are always loopholes around The Man (unless your incarcerated but if that is the case, you are probably not reading a style blog). And remember to always smile, no matter the situation. A frown is one-size-fits-none, sunshine.

Brogues, Oxfords, and Saddle Shoes

          When I was younger, I had a major problem tying my shoes. I am not talking about the normal finger fumbling that happens when a kid first learns her knots and crosses. No, no, I had a serious deficiency. No matter how many times I practiced, no matter how many catchy, educational rhymes I learned, those damn bunny ears would never go through those damn holes, and would never come out beautiful and bold. Thankfully, the world of footwear smiled kindly on me for a while. I was still young enough to wear velcro on my sneakers, and soon enough those awesome springy laces made their debut in every Payless in the country. I am not certain about the exact physics behind them but they kind of just mashed together and magically held your shoes onto your feet. Plus, they came in glow-in-the-dark colors, for all of those midnight marathons I was running in the third grade. I don't care how old or how tough you think you are but no one can say no to phosphorescence.
          Sadly, bullies are real, not just characters in after-school specials. Snot-nosed brats made fun of my shoes, calling me a baby, calling me dumb. They said my sneakers looked like bugs, springy antennae and all. Which was true, yeah but I didn't want to be called out on it. I decided that I had two options at that time: I could cry to my mom about how mean they were being to me, or I could finally see how deep the rabbit hole went.
          To make a long story a little bit shorter, I did both. I cried before, during, and after learning how to tie my shoes. I still remember my disbelief when I finally made that sweet little bow on the top of my sweet little foot. I tied and untied my laces over and over again, afraid that if I didn't remain constantly vigilant I would lose the ability forever. I was so proud that first day I walked into gym class, my shoes firmly in place, ready to take on the world. I could finally run free with the other kids, playing floor hockey and kickball (although still not very fast, I was kind of a plump child). My future with shoelaces was off to a beautiful beginning.
          Ever since then, I feel like I've had a subconscious obsession with lace-up shoes. In my proud primary school years, I wore beige suede oxfords and black and white saddle shoes, thinking myself the modern-day Frenchie, a beautiful beauty school dropout. The angst I felt during puberty and middle school could be seen on my feet in the form of what my dad so tactfully called "shit kickers," thick soled Doc Martins that I wore to their deliciously dirty demise. I had a crush on all of the punk kids in high school, which was outlived by my crush on their Converse and Vans.  And now, college and beyond, I'm in a committed relationship with all of the above, and don't forsee an imminent divorce.
          Now don't get me wrong, I love ballet flats and heels and sandals and such. I'm a girl, for goodness sake; it's in our genetic makeup to adore footwear. However for me, there is just that something that makes me look twice at a laced-up shoe. I think it's the fact that you can do anything you want in these shoes. Let's be honest: you're not running into the ocean at midnight in heels, or skydiving in Chanel flats. You can't even ride most rollercoasters in flip-flops! If only those shoes had something to hold them onto your feet... if only they tied.  It might also be the fact that shoes like oxford, brogues, and Docs are a nice contrast to my normally girly style. They add a little bit of toughness, a little bit of control. Most have a slight menswear tilt on them, making known who really wears the pants in a relationship.  Lace-ups also hold a bit of history to them, a bit of culture.  A pair of brown Oxfords can stir up memories of reading in a library, knee-high boots can remind a person of hiking in the fall, or a recent rock concert. Shoes with laces tell a person that they have a specific person, that have places to go, people to see, and memories to make.

The Peter Pan Collar

          One of my best friends told me that if she had to pick one word to describe me, it would be "whimsical," and I have to admit she is pretty spot on. I like unicorns and dinosaurs more than any other animal that actually exists. I'm obsessed with food trucks. I think everything tastes better when it is covered in rainbow jimmies. I'm addicted to temporary tattoos, and fascinated by the French Revolution. I'm planning on decorating my future apartment in vintage furnishings. I write poetry. I like cat things and kitchy office supplies. I make the same wish at 11:11 everyday. When I asked her if any of these reasons were what brought her to this decision, she said, "Yeah, all of those... and the fact that you dress like a British secretary from the 1960s."
          Which again, spot on. Now readers, if you stick with me you will get to read all about my Sterling-Cooper styled closet (probably a little too much about it, actually). But this post is focused on whimsy, so I'll hold off on my ravings about pencil skirts and fishnets to discuss a recently reborn trend in the fashion family: the Peter Pan collar.
          Until very recently, wearing a Peter Pan collar on a modern blouse would have deemed the fashionista in question as either prudish or juvenile. These assumptions are possibly drawn from the fact that the round-edged neckband was commonly seen on the shirts of Catholic school children. I remember my own disdain for my uniform blouses while I saw my sister earn the privilege to wear a pointed-style collar as she advanced into high school. Even at the age of seven, I knew how these little bug wings defined me: I was a baby, only just blooming into life, not trusted to handle sharp edges just yet.
          Fortunately, I did grow up, and just as fortunately my opinions have changed. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I can see the beauty in Peter Pans. They do inspire a feel of youth but that is exactly the point. In our world today, there is an overwhelming amount of vice. There's war, rape, death, hatred, cheating, stealing, depression, pain, and other awful things. As adults, we see these cruelties every day, and we are asked to deal with them, to let them into our homes through our televisions, newspapers, and radios.  But children seem to always see the good in things. They make friends on the playground without even taking into account the companion's weight, race, or economic standing. A child will eat four cupcakes, and feel absolutely no guilt afterwards. They will sing, and spin around in circles, and watch Disney all because they want to do so. They're honest, genuine, and love with their whole hearts. As a kid, I constantly thought about what it would be like to be a grown up but now as a grown up, I miss the innocence in not knowing. 
          For me, the Peter Pan collar gives me a bit of childhood back. Usually in a white, or light color it can inspire purity, a metaphoric middle finger to all of the low necklines of usual club wear (which unfortunately has also trickled into people's everyday closets). The collar is youthful and full of joy, mirroring the roundness of a person's cheek when she smiles. As with all starch collars, it's classic; although it's origins are a bit muddled, many believed that the collar gained popularity first in France, after being featured on the heroine of a bestselling novel in the early 1900s.
          That being said, contemporary designers have revved this trend up in various ways. Many are warping the collar by featuring it on otherwise incredibly sexy cocktail dresses. Peter Pans have been seen in leather, lace, and nylon, making them cooler, more rock and roll. Collar/necklace hybrids have been popping up in major retail stores, giving every posh panda the chance to transform any top into the schoolgirl staple. One of my favorite advances have been the anti-collar, dresses or tops that have cut out the shape of the collar, making the illusion of one made out of your own skin. Kind of creepy, but also pretty freaking rad.  Personally, I don't care what it's made out of: if there is a Peter Pan collar on it, I'm buying it. I'd be suckered into buying more drinks at happy hour if they had rounded lapels wrapped around the glass instead of those stupid passé umbrellas.  J. M. Barrie, the creator of Peter Pan himself once wrote, "For to have faith is to have wings." When I'm wearing a Peter Pan collar, I feel like I have my own little set of wings, full of faith in the fashion advances to come.

Exposed Zipper

          Normally, I have a major problem with zippers, especially those of the invisible variety, especially when they have been sewn into the sides of adorable dresses. For some reason, my body has been blessed with a pretty wide ribcage. This is great for the deep breathing in my yoga classes, or when I want to hug someone tightly. Unfortunately, when the rest of my figure fits into Size A but my ribcage forces me to wear Size C, this blessing starts to feel like a bother. I'll be in the fitting room, trying on a flirty frock that from three sides looks perfect but from one side looks like the victim in a slasher movie, the large pale expanse of my left torso exposed, the open zipper becoming a vicious, laughing mouth.  I jump up and down, pinching the small sliver of a pull between my thumb and forefinger but no amount of non-existent upper arm strength will help it budge. If, on the very rare occasion that all of my Herculean efforts do result in upward motion, I then have a new problem on my hands: how do I get out of this jam?  More than once have I ripped the seam in a dress beyond repair, placed the dress back on the hanger, handed it to the fitting room attendant, and got the hell out of Dodge. It's not something I'm proud of but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do in order to not spend spring in last season's styles.
          So, what's a wide-ribbed lady to do when she needs to close her clothes? Buttons are great but can appear out of place or lead to unsightly gaping, and snaps lead people to think you are approximately four and a half years old. One could got the tied-and-tried-and-true route of corseting but let's be honest: if you're wearing a top made out of bits of boning, lace, and silk ties, it's not meant to stay on for very long. In a state of hopelessness, I had adopted a style I like to call Depression Chic: dowdy pullovers and elastic-waist cheerleader shorts. I decided that if the world wasn't cutting dresses for my shape, it obviously wouldn't miss it when covered up in sweatsuits. 
          Enter the Exposed Zipper. 
          A lot of people think displaying the hardware, the constructing elements of a garment results in an unpolished and unfinished piece. They believe the beauty is all in the fabrics, the way something looks on a body. And for the most part, they're right; as the old adage goes, "the clothes don't make the man, the man makes the clothes." However, in my educated opinion, an exposed zipper is more than just a tool left out in the open air. It's an accessory, a game-changer. It adds a metallic, industrial touch to what otherwise could be a demure skirt. In a practical sense, an exposed zipper tends to be sturdier, similar to those found on blue jeans and army issue jackets. They close, and close well, and their pulls are easily seen and grasped. They're surprising, especially when attached to classic staples; for months I lusted over a simple black dress that boasted a shiny gold zipper down the full length of its back. This brings me to my next point: exposed zippers are sexy as hell.  Theoretically, in one swift motion you could be naked, which also makes them dangerous and a bit seductive. They're a dare for both the wearer and all those who encounter her. 
          But one of the best things about exposed zippers? Everyone can wear them. No, seriously. You could go super subtle, showing off small zippers on the cuffs of your coat or the ankles of your cigarette pants. More and more designers are featuring small, zippered pockets on particularly understated tops. Fall boots showcase zippers running down the length of the calve, hinting at equal parts retro (an homage to seamed tights) and equestrian. And if you think you are ready to take the plunge into longer lengths, you have my full approval.  You can shake up your look while taking comfort in the fact that  it'll stay closed and keep you covered. That is, only if you want it to...

The 3/4 Length Sleeve

          In the fashion world, length can be a tricky wicket. Maxi skirts, mini skirts, oversized everything, baby tee, boyfriend jeans, thong underwear... all of these trends beg the question, "What is the appropriate amount of fabric for any given occasion?" Some super chic individuals have made names for themselves through playing with length; for example, the Olsen twins took the bag lady look from the homeless shelters to the haute couture houses one gigantic, grandpa sweater at a time. In my mind however, there is one length that will never be out of place, or out of style: the 3/4 length sleeve. I know, you're probably reading this and thinking, "Really? She's writing about a sleeve?" And the simple answer is yes. However, it's not just the construction of the sleeve, the fabrics, and the stitching that I find beautiful but what this type of sleeve suggests. Just hear me out.
          A man wearing a 3/4 length sleeve is powerful. Maybe not in the business and philanthropy way. Maybe he doesn't trade transatlantic stock with Taiwan but he gets shit done. His rolled sleeves mean that he needs his hands to be free to accomplish one thing or another, from opening a pickle jar to drawing with charcoal to raising a barn. Or maybe he just finished a project, and now has to wash his hands and prepare for the next project to come his way. He unconsciously shows off his masculine forearm, all hairy and muscular , some veins showing here and there. It's not the most proper and his cuffs might get wrinkled but he's got more important things on his mind. Besides, he knows he still looks damn good. A button down with the sleeves rolled up, or a baseball-style shirt with cropped ones  are dressier than a normal tee or a short sleeve work shirt, but can still be cafe cool or rock-and-roll rad. This guy can still play bass in the band or thoughtfully sip a chai in either attire. All the barista babes and girl groupies will be on you like a cinnamon bun. 
          Now, for the ladies. A 3/4 length sleeve (as seen above on yours truly) does for a woman's femininity what it does for a man's masculinity. I can see the doubtful look on your face already but let me explain. A woman's wrist is such a delicate piece of body; the skin is pale and thin, blue and green veins fully displayed, the bones light like that of a bird. It's the spot where a lady puts perfume and tennis bracelets. It's grabbed in moments of protection... and passion. It's the new Victorian Ankle. It's understated but really shouldn't be. It holds a pulse, a heat. Besides, there is something classic about cropping. Audrey did it, Coco did it. You can, too. Your beautiful, dainty wrists will thank you for a little fresh air and soft stroking from a lover.
          And what happens when a properly sleeved man and a properly sleeved woman meet? They hold hands because no stiff cuff is holding them back.

New Beginnings

          A friend (who is no longer a friend but who probably had the best intentions at the time) once told me that before I started blogging I'd have to find a reason, a unique way of looking at something, a niche. He advised me to focus on something that no one else had featured before, otherwise I'd be another internet nobody. For a while, I followed this advice. This thought became my bedfellow through many sleepless nights; how could I put a new spin on something, how could I make something appeal to the cool cyber kids, who have already browsed all of everything? I started to feel very small and defeated before I even started. 
          Today, I finally realized that the more I think, the less I do. If I flip an idea around in my brain too much I get scared and, like the little rabbit of a girl that I am, run away from it. So, although he probably was just trying to help, I'm throwing a big whatever at that once-friend's words of wisdom. I'm going to blog. And it's going to be disjointed. And sometimes boring. In all honesty, I hope you like me and I hope you like what you read. If not, you'll move onto something else on your own accord. But I'm going to let you know right now: I'm pretty entertaining, in all my flighty glory. 
          So, my raison d'être? I have this undying need to talk about clothes. And shoes. And beautiful things in general. Do not confuse this with a want, dear reader. It has almost gotten to the level of compulsion. I flip through magazines or see someone on the street and think, "Good God! I need to tell someone about such-and-such!" You are that someone. So, let's be friends, yes? We'll talk about neon, and lace, and the occasional cupcake. I have a lot to say, and I take a lot of pictures but stick with me gal pals and gentle guys! It's about to get chic.