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.