Breaking Black, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bright Colors

          I recently had an epiphany in the fitting room of a Forever XXI. While that specific verb and specific proper noun don't normally go together, this is a true story. All names, situations, and places are real, and based on fact, so hear me out. In an attempt to hurry spring along, I decided to go shopping for a new sundress. Seasonal transition lines have officially hit the racks, nibbling on the heels of New York Fashion Week, and I had just received my (slightly depressing) paycheck that morning. Now, I've always been under the impression that if something depresses you, you should be rid of it as soon as possible, which is how I came to the logical conclusion of retail therapy. One of the best places to find an array of different dresses with semi-respectable price tags is Forever XXI.
          Stop. I can hear you groaning from all the way over here.
          I will be the first to admit that this monstrous chain tiptoes the thin line between trendy and trashy much more often than I am usually comfortable with. However, much like the search for the perfect pair of jeans, if you take your time scouring through rack after rack (after rack after rack after rack...), more often than not you'll find something that suits your fancy. Forever XXI tends to get a bad reputation because it's pretty fearless with what it stocks on the shelves. It knows that everyone has a freak flag deep inside that needs to fly free every once and a while, and when that time comes, it'll be happy to provide heavy doses of weird. Even though most of those bright purple, faux fur pimp coats will meet their slow demise and sell for $4.99 in the clearance room, there's always that one girl who is looking for a statement piece like that to complete her closet. F21 rules because they simultaneously refuse to conform and try to please each of their customers.
          But I digress. Because I have this problem of liking pretty much everything, I ended up bringing a million and one dresses with me to the fitting room. While they were all cute (well, okay not all of them; I don't know why I thought cheetah print peplum was going to round out my life...) nothing struck me as hot-to-trot amazing. As paltry as my wages are, I wasn't about to blow them on a sub par dress. I asked the attendant what she thought of the one I was most sold on, a little black number with an illusion sweetheart neckline, white bow print, and a-line skirt. She took half a look at me before suggesting that I try its red twin. On the floor, I had originally picked up the red one but ultimately opted out, thinking it too precious. I slipped into the one she brought me and realized how wrong I was. The red one was anything but precious. The red dress forced me to stand out, even by myself in the comfort of a private dressing room. I couldn't hide from myself. The color was less firetruck, more salmon-swimming-against-the-current red: strong and determined. My pale skin went from bland to brilliant in front of my eyes, sparkling like a Stephanie Meyer vampire. My dark hair took on the opposite effect, the color richer, more striking; it pulled one in with its darkness, like a black hole. All of a sudden I was a White Stripes cover. I was the answer to that age old joke of what's black and white and red all over. I didn't know what to think so, slowly cracking the door open, I asked my New Best Friend what she thought. She pursed her sticky glossed lips as she had me turn for her. "Yeahhhh..." she said, "this is much better. You look like you actually enjoy life now." I told her that this dress was totally out of my comfort zone, that I normally stick to the darker colors. "Yeahhhh..." she sighed again, "You look like one of those girls who wears a lot of black and drinks a lot of espresso."
          Biddie went from bestie to bitch in two shakes of a lamb's tail but it got me thinking: since when did black get such a bad rep? Isn't it supposed to be a classic, pairing with everything and perfect for every occasion? Looking around as I write, I'm noticing that almost every person here has a black something. Black scarves, black shoes, black thick rimmed glasses, black smartphones, and yes, black coffee. I wonder if this is out of choice, or out of lack of choice? Is our love of the neutral becoming a problem?
          Okay, I know that sounds melodramatic so let me try and explain it differently. I feel as if the color black and the term "comfortable" have become synonymous. We all have been taught these wonderful (and completely true) things about black. If the piece fits you well, black can be extremely slimming. It's hard to dirty up a black dress or black slacks, hence why most restaurants adopt it for their dress codes. Because black is the culmination of all colors, it's understandable how it can be acceptable for all occasions; one could wear either black or baby blue to a wedding reception, but the same can not be said when choosing an outfit for a funeral. With black being so universally accepted, we have fallen into a dangerous rut of it becoming our first and normally only choice when it comes down to what to wear. You ultimately blend in when wearing black because everyone can pull it off; you never hear someone going, "Oh, only you could wear that shade of black. It looks so bad on me..." When I think back to all of the fashionable pieces that will always remain in my sartorial heart, very few are black, and those few are expertly tailored or dramatically crafted (see Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's and Jackie O's funeral veil). I feel more and more like America is stylishly depressed. You go out wearing black because it's never let you down before. Your friends say, "Wow, that dress is great" but then it's never mentioned again. That dress is not a conversation piece. What your friend is really saying is, "That black dress helps you pass as acceptable. Moving on."
          As harsh as that may come off, you don't want to be just "great," just "acceptable," do you? You are a stunner. You are a fox. You have every right to be your own conversation starter. I looked into my own closet after my shopping trip to take a gander as to what my black pieces were saying about me. The restaurant that I work for recently dumped the old uniform of white-button-down-and-tie for a streamlined, all black code, so my collection of the dark neutral has grown significantly. Most of my black clothes were just that: black clothes. Things I could go to work in, professional pieces. But I wasn't just wearing them to work, no, no. I was taking them out for nights on the town, treating them like party pieces when, in reality, they're a bit of a snore. I was starting to let basics rule my look. Freshman year of college, I would rock the most insane color combinations while others stuck to hoodies and jeans. Now, I have reached the age of what some would classify "adulthood" and I worry more about what others think. I need to get a steady job and a bank loan, and ain't nobody going to take me seriously in high-waisted, floral print shorts.
          But, so what? Just because I'm twenty-two and just because I'm being thrown into a new, professional world doesn't mean I need to trade my personal style in. There is always room for ikat prints and neon creepers (the shoes, not the person)! Unlike black, bright colors and prints can't be worn for every occasion, so we should start celebrating the times that we can wear them by doing so. There are too many beautiful things to wear, and still so much time to wear them. Starting ASAP, I'm challenging myself to wear more color. Scary, I know. When you choose to wear color, you choose to put yourself out there. You choose to show yourself off. You become the proverbial peacock rather than the pigeon. Here are some tips I've gathered to help you transition from bland to bah-zing!
         
1.) A dab'll do ya. Start small if your shy about bright colors, work it into your accessories first. Try a printed bag or colored belt with jeans and a sweater. Opt for the sparklier jewelry, or thick headband. Even a pop of lipstick can add interest to an otherwise somber ensemble. Try practicing with these small steps every day, and soon color will become a habit and you'll want to wear more.

2.) Try the twin. Pull a me and if the piece you're trying on comes in a color, try that one on, too. It may not work, but you'll never know until you take that chance.

3.) Learn  what colors work for you. It may seem extremely old lady, but "getting your colors done" is something everyone should at least explore. There are handy dandy quizzes floating around the Internet that can help you with this. They take your skin, hair, and eye color (along with a few other factors) and generate a list of hues that will compliment you the best. With my dark hair and light eyes, I'm a winter, which shouldn't really be a surprise to anyone. This profiling gave me insight into colors I never thought I could pull off, like eggplant and rust. I always assumed they'd make me look like a ghost when they actually help my features stand out. Go figure.

4.) Try, try, and try again. Not everything is going to look great. However, not everything that you think isn't going to look good won't look good. You feel me? For example, I recently was shopping with my best friend Hillary and ended up picking up a violently pink neoprene dress. This pink was hurt-your-corneas bright. We both thought that no one could pull such a shade off, which then prompted me to try it on. Obviously. When I put the dress on to show Hillary, she said, "Literally one person could pull off that color. That one person being you." Sometimes seemingly awful things end up being amazing, like the Cupid Shuffle or WarHeads candy. Have a little faith but more importantly have a little fun. You're too fabulous to take yourself seriously all of the time.

Pencil Skirts

          There are some movie scenes that just sink into a person's mind and stay there forever. Something about the lighting, the setting, the accompanying music, the script, the acting, the everything of that moment hits an emotional spot with the viewer. Maybe the movie mirrors the person's life and has brought him to enlightenment as to what to do with his sad state, or maybe the movie makes someone laugh harder than she ever though she could laugh after a day like that. Or, maybe the movie had Jennifer Lawrence in it, which then inspired you to sign up for that Pilates class after all. No matter what way it happens, movies sometimes become more than just entertainment.
          The scenes that have stuck with me are all over the cinematic spectrum. They include but are in no means limited to Cameron killing the car in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, the dance competition in Pulp Fiction, the final (although completely textually incorrect) kiss in the new Pride and Prejudice, the bedroom situation in Barefoot in the Park, Buffalo Gals from It's a Wonderful Life, all of the faces that melted in Raiders of the Lost Arc, and Eva Amurri's entire character arc in Saved! Don't ask why these stick with me because I honestly have no idea. Sometimes, there is no rational explanation as to why something makes an impression. Case in point: the subway grate scene in The Seven Year Itch.
          Marilyn Monroe has had many, many moments in the spotlight. From her cute calendar shots while still a brunette to her breathy birthday serenade to a certain president, it's safe to say her image has thoroughly sunk into the minds of her audience. However, in The Seven Year Itch one scene in particular has made it onto the list of most iconic images of the 20th century. Nine out of ten readers already know what I'm talking about but for that confused cultural ingenue, let me drop you a few clues: it involves a white dress, a city sidewalk grate, and a whole lot of updraft. I love Miss Monroe, honestly and truly but I just don't get that scene. I know it's supposed to be purely provocative, showing much more of the bombshell than most people had probably seen. And yeah, it is hecka sexy. However, in real life NO ONE would have reacted in such casual, dare I say, even inviting manner. It was the 1950s, for goodness sake! If a woman (even if that woman was Mega Fox Monroe) was out, walking around on a date and all of sudden her skirt flies up all around her face, that's a reason to be mortified not amused. It's not cause to laugh, honey pie, it's cause to hail the next cab and call it a night!
          Okay. Maybe I'm overreacting but my own Marilyn moments have not been few and far between. I mean, I live in a city, and I had to wear some sort of skirtlike uniform almost every day for thirteen years. Embarrassing moments abounded. I remember walking from my middle school building to church for mass on particularly windy Wednesdays, clutching the extra fabric of my jumper tight against my legs to protect my dignity. While waiting for the downtown bus home from high school, the rush of the passing traffic stirred my plaid skirt, flirting with the dangerous idea of being flipped. Legend has it that once a girl's skirt flew up and someone noticed she was wearing the Wednesday pair of day-of-the-week underwear on a Friday. She died of embarrassment and shame that weekend. See, Norma Jean? It's all fun and games until someone mentions your unmentionables.
          So what's a lady such as myself to do when it's as blustery as it has been? The easy way out would be to swallow my pride and slap on a pair of slacks and a bowler hat and Charlie Chaplin the shit out of this weather. Easy peasy, lemon squeezie. However, you should know by now dear readers that I am not one to normally 1.) take the easy way out, and 2.) wear pants. I just adore skirts and dresses. It might be getting to the point of obsession, and yes, I'm looking into getting help. But before they try to make me go to rehab, I come with wisdom for my fellow ladies for these last windy weeks of winter. I come bearing pencil skirts.
          I could go on and on about pencil skirts. Seriously. I think I own more pencil skirts than anything else, with the exception of underwear. I'm pretty sure I even have two of the exact same color and style because I was certain something terrible would happen to one, leaving me skirtless and depressed. Again, I know how crazy I must sound but if you would just give me a moment to explain, I'm sure I can convince you to love the cut as much as I do.
          The pencil skirt has been a savior in the fashion world on many levels. First, and possibly most importantly, the pencil skirt saved a woman from the horror that is the hobble skirt. For those of you that don't know already, the hobble skirt is a sort of insane piece of clothing. Imagine a maxi skirt that is bound at the bottom with a scrunchi, right above the ankles. I know, completely ridiculous but it was all the rage around the turn of the 20th century. The simplicity of the pencil skirt made it a savior in yet another way. During World War I, fabric was being rationed in order to adequately clothe the armed forces. Fashion designers and home sewers alike had to make do with the material they had. The pencil silhouette came into fashion during war times because although it was full length, its simple, straight construction lacked the extra embellishments previous eras had favored. It used little fabric while still being a modest piece for a woman's closet.
          In 1940, Christian Dior brought the pencil skirt from the floor to the knee. The designer felt that hiding a woman's leg was an outdated practice for an increasingly modern world. This modified version retained its form-fitting shape, and, to help women move, was equipped with a small split or pleat down the last few edges on the back, also known as a kick pleat.
          The pencil skirt has recently regained popularity in today's chic communities for what I believe are a few reasons. As I stated in my last post, trends are becoming more and more perpetuated by television, and I feel what Mad Men did for suits it also did for pencil skirts. Just look at the costume choices for each female character. You have Betty, who is normally clad in the fuller skirts featured in Dior's New Look. Betty is also kind of a bitch. And crazy. In the viewer's unconscious mind, she's associating the princess dresses of the 1950s with high maintenance and short fuses. Now take Joan, who is quite the fan of the pencil skirt and its close cousin, the pencil dress. Joan is clever, ambitious, and the object of most envy and desire. Again, the unconscious association is that pencil skirts are for all the honeys who make the money, the Alpha Females.
          Another theory I have is that fashion molds itself around what's happening culturally. If you look back on the past decade of style, you can clearly see a theme of ease.  Denim came back in full force, showcasing three fresh cuts which we all hemmed and hawed over: the baggy boyfriend, the skinny stovepipe (which will constantly be my go-to), and the surprisingly flattering wide leg. Athletic wear (unfortunately) drifted over the line into everyday wear, and graphic tees helped you say what was on your mind in 140 sassy characters before the boom of Twitter. Oh, and Crocs, of which there is not much to say but don't. To me, it was almost as if the abrupt terrorism and following war affected our wardrobes. Consumers sought out comfort; we wanted things that fit and things that were familiar. We wanted clothing that we believed to be distinctly American, even though a majority of it was produced in a foreign country. Blue jeans and tee shirts became our uniform, our symbol of solidarity. Unfortunately, this didn't leave a lot of room for femininity.
          Now, I'm not about to say that our battle as a country is over, that our need to stand together is through. But I do feel as if there is a shift in our morale, which translates to what we wear. We want to grow as individuals, we want a fresh start, a strong foundation. We want definition. Speaking with a women's point of view, I think we all want a little more fantasy, a little more fun, a little more escape. A lot of people laugh at the hipster movement, the manic pixie dream girl, and the club kid style but as someone who has dipped my toes into these pools from time to time there's a sense of relief that comes from playing with your clothing, allowing yourself to have fun and enjoy your own flair. As a leading world power, Americans are asked to keep a stiff upper lip, which can get incredibly exhausting.
          But back to the skirt. A pencil skirt is quite possibly the best of both worlds. For a woman, it is both functional and fantastic. Like other skirts, it's completely feminine; with the exception of Marc Jacobs, Scotsmen, and drag queens, it's a rarity to see a man in a skirt. While some may see that as sexist and oppressive, I see it quite differently. Women get to have something men don't have. Yes, it's a one-up in the dressing room but a small victory is a victory nonetheless. I see the pencil skirt as victorious, a symbol of confidence and drive. Women wouldn't settle for the hobble skirt. Women wouldn't settle with the floor length, either. Women wanted it all. The pencil skirt is a symbol of our ability to transition. It can easily go from the work day to a night out, with a few changes in accessory. Unfortunately, I feel a lot of women are scared to wear them, believing the cut to be unflattering, showing off just how overweight/round/undefined/other negative comment they really are. I had a similar mindset about the skirt but much like a healthy habit, the more you do it the more you like doing it. The pencil skirt celebrates the female figure. Woman are supposed to have curves, peaks and valleys that move softly and fluidly. The pencil skirt shows what your momma gave you. You are worth celebrating, and this skirt knows it.
          The pencil skirt is incredibly flexible. While the cut is classic in suiting material such as houndstooth and wool, many designers are presenting them in jersey, leather, and even neoprene (yeah, swimsuit fabric).  For work, a nice woven blouse tucked in looks incredibly sharp but other pairing options can include a cashmere sweater or even a nice jersey v-neck shirt in rich jewel tones, such as Pantone's color of the year, emerald. Also, a cami-and-cardi combo is always a go-to when you're on the go. For casual days, I love pairing a high waisted pencil skirt with an optically interesting graphic tee, sleeves rolled up greaser-style. High-waisted pencil skirts are also great with those crop tops we all hoarded this summer; it's more modest than jeans but still leaves a little seductive sliver of skin peeking out. Pencils are great with both flats and heels, but if you do choose flats take note that you're not breaking up the line of your leg too much. You've got great gams, sunshine. It'd be a damn shame not to show them off, especially in a skirt like this.

Mens-day: Suits

          People blame television for a lot of things. Since the set came out, mothers have been warning their children not to sit too close to the screen, otherwise they'll go blind within the year. Many believe television is the main factor in the quickly growing rate of obesity in our nation. Others credit television as the cause of unwarranted violence and unprotected sex in today's world. The mudslinging doesn't stop there, either. The restaurant that I work for refuses to hang televisions in the bar area, claiming the company is "dedicated to traditional family values." Television splits families apart and destroys the art of meaningful conversation! In short, television is the devil. The More You Know!
          In all seriousness, while being glued to the tube is never a good thing, I feel that a little television every once and awhile won't rip a person's life to shreds. Certain broadcasts aided me in staying informed (and possibly a little bit over-informed) during the presidential election, helping me narrow down for whom I'd be casting my vote. During my freshman year of college, I bonded with the girls on my dormitory floor over America's Next Top Model and Gossip Girl, establishing lasting friendships over commercial breaks and post-show speculations (Chair forever, ladies.) Contrary to popular belief, I have had meaningful conversations that spurred off of ones about television shows, including a rhetorical analysis of Girls, a debate on whether or not past decades were better than present day brought on by Mad Men, and the composition of a pro/con list concerning if I really want to live in Baltimore courtesy of The Wire. I've learned things from crime shows like Bones and Law and Order, although maybe not enough to pass the bar exam. And who doesn't love that endless string of award shows at the beginning of every year? While television should not be our end-all-be-all, it has given us some good things. For example, it's brought men's business suits back into every living room in the country.
          Is it just me, or are the men on television impeccably dressed? I feel as if this wonderful transition in the costuming of male characters began with the ad men of Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce (née Sterling-Cooper, or the agency in Mad Men, for those of you who have been living under a rock). Don Draper, Roger Sterling, and incredibly creepy Peter Campbell are men that know their way around a deal. They could sell cookies to a Girl Scout and not make her think twice about what she was doing. They know their game and can play it better than anyone else, because they know if they don't win their families (and ladies on the side) will suffer at the lack of bacon being brought home. It's entirely sexist, and each of them have racked up significant frequent flier miles on power trips but all of that aside one can clearly connect what they're wearing to their overall success in life. Don knows he looks sharp because he chose to wear a suit that's tailored to his proportions, that fits all over. He doesn't have to worry about the coat being too bulky or the legs being too short, which gives his brain room to worry about more important things like a million dollar account or what he's going to do about his daughter's obnoxious lisp.
          Other notable television characters have also helped popularize the three-piece. Charles Bass went from high school rapscallion to bow-tied business man in between seasons. Barney Stintson has always worn a suit on How I Met Your Mother and tries to get others to "suit up" whenever possible. There is even a show simply titled Suits. It's about clever, conniving lawyers who do business in building with lots of shiny glass and/or rich wood surfaces. Unfortunately, these characters have another thing in common beyond their wardrobe. They are all terrible misogynists, which is kind of a deal breaker what with my being a woman and all. It's this crippling character flaw that may be giving suits a bad reputation: wear a suit, you're an asshole. I find this to be an extremely sad assumption because I've met a lot of really nice guys who just happened to be wearing suits. If we continue to view a suit as the sign of a sexist sir, we lose everything else a suit can symbolize. We lose its power, its strength, and its grace.
          A lot of men that I've talked to hate wearing suits. Big surprise there. They find it to be too confining and uncomfortable. Others say that it makes a guy look like everyone else, that it's against individuality and freedom of expression.  They say it's a symbol of oppression, a symbol of The Man who is always trying to bring the party down. And I can understand. Really. I'm not saying that you should lounge around and watch the big game on Sunday in a nice pinstripe. I'm not saying that you should go to the chili cook-off dressed to the nines. I'm not even saying that you need to wear a suit to every bar or on every date to impress the ladies. My mission here is to get men to look at suits differently, to create a better relationship with those blue, black, and otherwise colored ensembles pushed to the back of your closet. Then once the two of you are bosom buddies, maybe you'll take it out on the town more often and introduce it to your other friends. I'm positive everyone will get along famously.
          Now, let's take the whole shebang apart piece by piece, shall we? First, have you ever thought about how you button your shirt? (Probably not, I know but I wonder about these things all of the time so I did some nerd girl research.) The buttons on a man's dress shirt has origins in the plate armor worn in the 1300s. Before it was invented, a knight would hold his shield on the left side of his body, the side that was most commonly attacked. When shields were replaced with metal suits, fighting styles hadn't changed so knights were still being struck on the left. To guard against swords getting caught in a joint, armor was designed to be  fastened left over right so that the pesky joint was on the right side, and fighters could continue raging war without worry.
          A men's tie is not the most comfortable thing to wear in the world; I know this by experience. I have to wear one every day for work, so I am familiar with the constant feeling that you're wearing a noose in public. However, they also have a pretty kick ass past. During the Thirty Years' War, Europe was experiencing especially cold winters due to a low amount of solar activity (this period is sometimes referred to as the Little Ice Age). The extreme drop in temperature forced the soldiers fighting to make significant changes in their wardrobe in order to keep warm and stay alive. The Croatian soldiers wrapped long pieces of fabric loosely around their necks, and the French were smitten with the look at first sight. After the war, the French adopted the style of the Croatians and called the piece a cravate, which probably came from the word croate. In America, we know this to be a necktie.
          The vest has an interesting past, too. It is known to be one of the few pieces brought into the fashion universe by England rather than the powerhouse that is France. In fact, the fashion rivalry between the two countries is what sparked the vest's creation. In the 1600s, King Charles VI was tired of the French and their flamboyant clothing. He decided to fashion a somber and functional piece of clothing that would also serve as a giant middle finger to the fops across the pond. The original vest looked somewhat like a monks robe, almost floor length in simple heavy fabric. While the composition of the it has changed drastically in today's version, the origin still proves that the most rebellious men wore vests.
          The idea of the suit in its entirety has a story similar to the vests. Beau Brummell, the father of modern suiting believed that a man was not meant to wear the fussy getups that France was producing, that a man needed something simple, easy, and strong to wear in the world. Brummell crafted the first suit to make a statement in society, as if to say, "I am a man, and this is what a man wears." He was done with the powdered wigs and tights of an older age; he wanted to dress men into a streamlined, more modern look. He wanted his menswear to mirror the country he loved: simple, dignified, and solid.  Although it had a small following in the beginning, Brummell's confidence in his product is what really brought the suit into popular circulation. To this day, England is home to the best tailors in the world, making the country's everlasting imprint in the fashion universe.
          So you see, the suit you only wear when forced actually comes from good breeding. Knights, soldiers, rebels... who wouldn't want to be those guys? The modern suit has held onto the most masculine elements throughout its evolution. When wearing one, it should make you feel more like The Man than a slave to Him. If you're looking into buying a suit, you should spend an afternoon on that task alone. Much like jeans, it takes awhile to find the right fit and style to suit you (all of the puns intended). Take along a fashionable friend to help give you an outsider's opinion. Also, don't be afraid to ask a sales person for help. They were hired because they know the ins and outs of menswear, so they're indispensable especially if this is your first time. Try on many different colors and styles. Have fun with tie/shirt combos, mixing patterns and hues. If you're adventurous, maybe even dip your toes in the realm of pocket squares! You can show a lot of personality in formal attire.
          However, if suits just aren't your jam right now, I understand. I'm not trying to force every man to spend every waking minute of his life in Brooks Brothers but maybe you can start incorporating elements into your daily wardrobe. Pop on a sport coat over your tee for drinks with the boys, or sport a skinny tie, button-down and jeans when you're romancing your lady. And an unbuttoned vest over a v-neck, henley, or really any shirt is very Han Solo. And let's be honest, who doesn't want to be Han Solo for the day?

What to Wear: When You're Under the Weather

         I'm convinced I have one leukocyte. No matter what precautions I take, no matter how many of those baby antibacterial gels I buy at Bath and Body Works semi-annual sale, no matter how many zinc and echinacea tablets I throw down my gullet each and every morning, I always, always, always get sick during the winter. I know, you're probably thinking, "Getting a nasty cold at the end of the year is no big thing! It happens to everyone, silly goose." You obviously don't know me very well, so let me enlighten you on my health history. I once had laryngitis for three months. I've had strep throat upwards of nine times. I've been questioned on if I'm starting a meth lab due to the amount of pseudoephedrine I've had to purchase all at one time. I fainted in a Target bathroom and had to be taken to the hospital via ambulance. I finished and presented my senior capstone project while hopped up on a Z-pack and Mucinex to treat a case of walking pneumonia. If I get a bruise on my shin, chances are it will still be there next month. I could go on, but I'm afraid you'll catch something just by talking about it.
          This past week, I've been battling my first cold of the season, which is saying something because I'm normally bedridden by October. It started off as an scratchy throat that annoyed me during a poetry reading that quickly developed into a beast with no name. The doctors didn't think it was the flu or strep throat (again) because I didn't have a fever, so they gave me the indispensable wisdom to rest and drink plenty of water and other liquids. Ironically, two things that I despise doing more than anything are resting and drinking water. While we're on the subject of illnesses, I should probably let you know that I have a pretty serious case of FOMO, or fear of missing out (Google it. I dare you. It's a real thing.) This causes me to have a go-go-go energy; I want to do all of the things at all of the times. I figure, I'm 22! I can juggle going out to the bar with my friends, learning Japanese, trekking to a new city to find the apartment of my dreams, working my shitty hostessing job, flowing through daily chaturanga, starting my own eco-friendly clothing line, and writing an academic article on the gender politics in fashion advertising all without sleep! Unfortunately, it is possible that this engines-hot-and-ready attitude is what landed me with an exhausted immune system in the first place, forcing my sorry ass onto the sofa, in front of an endless string of Sex and the City episodes and B-rated romantic comedies.
          However, there comes a time in every quarantined girl's stay in the sick bay where she must go out into the real world. It could be a run to the only Chinese restaurant in the city (that, curiously enough, doesn't deliver) for a vat of hot and sour soup and a double batch of fortune cookies. Maybe she's desperate for mentholated bubble bath and the newest Cosmopolitan. And yes, from time to time there's even the occasional trip to the doctor's office when the going gets really rough. At times such as these one could slap on a mismatched sweatsuit, pull her hair into a topknot, wear her best Jackie O's, and conjure up a wet cough for anyone who may come close enough to recognize her. I, myself have resorted to this ensemble and it works like a charm: no one sits next to you on the bus, your prescription is filled in record time, and there's no need to change when you get back home for your napternoon. However, the side effect of this outfit is a deep depression that only bad fashion can bring a person. And with a stuffy nose/whooping cough/fever/upset stomach/other seemingly deadly symptom, who wants to be sad on top of all that? No one. 
          Thankfully, my house arrest has given me a lot of time to think about solutions to this clothing conundrum. I went with the theme of what-would-I-be-wearing-if-I-accidentally-was-locked-out-of-my-ski-lodge-with-only-a-cup-of-cocoa-for-company? The steps are simple, and can be adapted to anyone's closet. If you have to step out while your sick:

          1.) Layer layers on top of other layered layers. Not only will this keep you warm and protected against the elements of this particularly wet and windy season, it also gives you the ability to take off clothes in the event of an unexpected fever without any indecent exposure charges.  In my case, I made myself into one of those delicious multi-level crepe cakes: camisole under a ribbed tank top under my boyfriend's tee shirt under a giant (and ridiculously comfortable) sweater that I stole from my best friend. You might feel a little bit like a stuffed pepper, especially if you are trying to cram all of these layers into a relatively snug peacoat but believe me, you'll be thankful an hour later when you're sweating in a public coffee shop, trying to finish an overdue blog post.

          2.) Wear the pants in the relationship. As you probably all know by now, if I could I would wear a skirt or dress for every and all occasions. However, no matter how many tights I put on these legs, they are just not as warm as a sturdy pair of skinny jeans. Look for heavier denim; some of those jeggings are really just jersey, painted indigo. If you're not feeling jeans, wool pants have been making a slow comeback with this (and next) seasons love of all things androgynous. Try a high-waisted charcoal or a glen plaid in a brown or toffee color with a paper bag waist, both of which are incredibly trendy and wicked toasty.

          3.) Knits are neato. Not only have I been blessed with a best friend who taught me to see the beauty in particularly ugly sweaters, I also have a mother who knows her way around a knitting needle. She has made me two sweaters, two pairs of socks, and a sharp pair of dinosaur slippers. Through their influence, my own love of knits has grown substantially, which is great because that keeping warm idea I've been talking about? Knits are all about it. Much like Daisy sour cream, a dollop'll do ya. Try leg warmers, fingerless gloves, or a floppy beanie if you don't feel like committing to a whole sweater. Or, if you're particularly adventurous, put them all together. There's nothing wrong with looking like a United Colors of Benetton advertisement.

          4.) Scarves against SARS. Okay, maybe not SARS but not only are scarves stylish, they also help prevent the spread of your nasty ass germs. As gross as it sounds, your scarf is something to sneeze into, cough into, and cry into if your cold medicine makes you as emotional as mine makes me. And bonus! A scarf is ten times prettier than that embroidered hankie that's been festering in your pocket since Thanksgiving. Look up some unusual ways to tie it up or tie it down on Pinterest so you can have a dash of fun with your function. (I mean, what else are you going to do while your sick besides scroll through endless pins? Put that obsession to good use, biddies.)

          5.) For goodness sake, put on a pair of socks. Someone once told me that if you're cold and if you focus on warming up your hands and feet first, the rest of your body will naturally follow their lead. I think this is a big bunch of bologna but I can attest to the fact that having cold feet might be the most uncomfortable feeling in the world, besides sitting in a wet swimsuit in a car that has fabric-covered seats. And again, do you want to feel more uncomfortable than you already do in your hacky-snotty-hazy daze? No. You can go the route of wearing fun socks that will make your tired soul smile every time you happen to gaze at your feet; this works well with moccasins, Converse, Vans, and other super casual footwear. If your wearing boot(ie)s, go for a thick boot sock that you can bunch up around the top. If you favor ballet flats, wear socks that match your shoes. Above, I paired a black sock with a black shoe so not to break up the line of my foot. Another bonus to wearing the ballet flat-sock-leg warmer combo? You look like an off-duty ballerina. Even when they're sick, off-duty ballerinas are significantly more graceful than even the healthiest average human being. Suddenly the weather you're under doesn't seem so bleak, does it Swan Queen?

Alter Egos

          At first glance, you might not peg me as a comic book nerd, but under these hip glasses and peplum skirts I have an unending love for all things superhero. As a little girl, I sat close to the screen, enamoured by the old Superman movies, and just how suave the Man of Steel could be. Along with the usual candy and small toys, Santa tucked comic books into my Christmas stocking. Throughout grade school, I pretended I was the Pink Ranger at recess while everyone else was a Spice Girl (granted, those ladies are superheroes of another caliber, but I digress). My love has followed me into adulthood. My brother and I have lengthy conversations about the newest movie adaptions and how closely they follow original plot lines. I've read and dissected various graphic novels with fellow enthusiasts, weighing literary merit against the element of sheer fantasy. I count down to Free Comic Book Day, and yes, I've become extremely fascinated with the costumes. (This is a fashion blog; did you honestly think I wouldn't mention the tights and spandex?)
          I think what gets me about a super suit is not the constricting construction, the heavy use of primary colors, or the recent popularity of the utility belt. What gets me about a super suit is how it can change a person, how it can advance a person from seemingly normal human being to something spectacular. Superman can't fly without his cape, Iron Man is toast without his armor, and Bruce Wayne is just a pretty boy doing push ups without all of those gadgets. And Alfred. I'm convinced he'd be dead without his butler bestie.
          After thinking about it more and more, I decided that super suits and their transformative powers aren't just found in the pages of first editions or on brightly-lit movie screens. They're in our own closets. I have this theory that we all have fashion alter egos. We have these signature looks that we love, our own Clark Kent getup complete with ill-fitting tweed jacket, thick-rimmed glasses, and awkward disposition around the opposite sex. It's what the outside world sees us in, and is most comfortable seeing us in. However, deep down we all have this other identity that is significantly different from the stylish role we play on most occasions. This look is completely foreign to our friends and loved ones; we would never display it in the light of day because we're certain they wouldn't understand. They'd shun us from society, intimidated by the power we've been harboring internally. We'd be labeled freaks and sent back to Krypton. If only they knew this secret side could save the city, maybe even the world!
          I want to reiterate that I am 100% behind having a signature look. It's the style you are most comfortable in, not only because it looks good on you but also because you, with all of those personal beliefs, opinions, and feelings, make the whole ensemble even better. In addition, we all know that those who feel good, look good. Suddenly, there's a whole lot of winning going on: you feel good because you're in your favorite outfit (which looks amazing on you in the first place, you fox) and because you feel good, your whole being shimmers with confidence, causing you to appear eighty-four thousand times more stylish to everyone who sees you. Soon, your picture shows up all glowing and chic on one of those street style blogs and Urban Outfitters designs their fall line around your ingenue image. You're a star, baby! You're a star!

          However, an epidemic of sorts is sweeping the sartorial part of our fine nation. Nay! A supervillian! (I like extending my metaphors as far as they will stretch.) I've been out shopping with my friends or flipping through the occasional Vogue, and she will point out something completely out of her usual style portfolio. She'll sigh as she wistfully paws the item saying, "God! I wish I could pull this off!"

       And to that, I find myself thinking why the hell not??  Answer: we are all so scared of our desires.  We live in a society of self-deprivation, self-denial. We've become passers. You pass up those delicious brownies in the cafe case or that second glass of wine because you think it's bad for you, because you're "trying to be good." You pass up buying those tickets to the concert you've been dying to see or the country you've been dying to visit because you know you should be saving your money for that ever threatening rainy day. You visit the same coffeehouses, bars, and clubs because they are familiar, they are safe.  The bleak reality of it all is that we're all waiting for something that may never actually happen. We're looking ahead, planning around uncertainty while we waste the moment that we have been given. Now, I'm not saying to take your life savings to Vegas, blow it all at the craps table, hook up with a midget stripper wearing a feather boa, and come home with chlamydia. No, no. What I'm saying is we have to let our freak flags fly every once and a while to feel truly powerful.

          Taking my own advice, I recently stepped into my metaphoric phone booth and changed into my super suit. Call it the Sandy affect or blame it on all that damn rock and roll I listen to but in the words of Allison Vernon-Williams, "I'm so tired of being good." My style alter ego is a cross between Bettie Page and a rockabilly baby. Both looks are all about rebellion. These biddies pulled away from the straight-laced sensibility of Christian Dior's New Look, which was defined by full a-line skirts and buttoned-up blouses. Think Grace Kelly in Rear Window, or Mad Men's Betty Draper in her entertaining finest.  The rockabilly style for women was adopted in order to show off the curves of the body that suffocating crinolines and long dresses hid from the male gaze. Everything was form-fitting. Both pants and skirts had high waists, producing a legs-for-days look. Stiletto heels made their mark, giving women a platform to stand strong on. The style is influenced by music, which was itself an enormous change from the crooners of the previous era. While some may argue these women were sexualized objects, I think differently. They were catalysts of change when women needed it most. The look allowed women (and men, frankly) to have fun, to feel powerful in their femininity rather than thinking it an inferior thing, something to demurely cover up. Women had a choice in how they wanted to present themselves. We should make like those rabble rousers and use our freedom of choice to the fullest. While I got a few weird looks and a lot of grief from rude men in the city, going out on the town in my secret identity was relieving. I felt free in my self-expression, and came to the full realization that I can take the chances I've always been afraid to take, in my fashionable life and otherwise.
          You've got to ease yourself into the waters of your alter ego. First, you have to find it. Look at the people you admire for their style. What is it about them that attracts you, beyond just what they're wearing? How does that shine through onto their clothing choices? Let's take the beautiful M.I.A. for example (another dream alter ego of mine). I admire her because she is outspoken, honest, and bad ass as all getout. She also has a strong hold on her cultural background, and tries to use her celebrity status for philanthropic good. In 2009, she declined being placed on People magazine's list of most beautiful people because Mother Theresa was never honored on the list. Her style mirrors these attributes in bright colors and significant volume, similar to the clothes in the Sri Lankan fashion circuit.
          Now, I'm not about to take pictures of my favorite lady rapper and try and find exact outfit replicas. However, I can risks and try to work some bolder shades and louder patterns into my everyday closet. I could even take it one step further and learn about my own heritage, and then see how those fashion elements resonate with me. It's all about exploration and bravery. If you're nervous, start small. Wear a simple top with beaded embellishment in homage to the flappers of the 1920s. With leather recently being on trend, it's the perfect time to throw on a jacket or a pair of boots and play around with punk. And a pearl necklace is a great gateway to becoming the spitting image of a beautiful 1950s debutante. Do what you want to do because there's no reason to wait around and try it later. Batman never hesitates to jump into full body spandex whenever the bat signal is flashed into the ominous night sky, and do you think Tony Stark gives a damn whenever someone gives him grief about his weird glowing artificial heart? No. He doesn't give a damn because he knows he's the shit. Be your own Tony Stark: wear what you want, drink whiskey, don't give a damn, and know you're the shit. 

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.