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.