Posts Tagged ‘style’

work // present

As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?

Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.

When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.

I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!

Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?

on growing up

This is going to sound ridiculous, but a few years back when I bought my beautiful bike, Dot, I became obsessed with getting a matching brown leather backpack. I envisioned riding around on my gorgeous cream colored bike — with brown handlebars and a brown leather seat — wearing a matching backpack in which I would carry my odds and ends.

Back when I was looking, backpacks really weren’t back in vogue yet. Now, it seems as though the 90’s have returned with a bang. And, with that era comes the small, girly backpacks of Friends and Felicity fame. I have been seeing them everywhere. Particularly on the younger generation. So, I’m having a bit of a dilemma. Do I get a backpack? Do I join the masses? Am I too old for this fad? I really wish I had gotten one years back so I could feel, you know, validated by being ahead of the trend.

Now, it just feels like I’m following a trend. I hate that. I don’t know why. Who cares? In fact, shouldn’t it be a source of great pride? Especially considering my yearning to fit in for all those years? I can’t quite explain it. But, all I know is that I have an intense desire to go against the norm.

This is all coming up because I just walked by my dream backpack. It was in the window of what I like to call a, triple-digit-boutique. You know, the stores you don’t even think about entering, because there are no price tags in the single or double digits.

But, it’s beautiful. It’s a medium brown leather, it’s the perfect size, it has these really cool closures made entirely of slightly darker stained leather pieces. It’s art. Perhaps that’s how I could justify its purchase? As a piece of artwork that I can enjoy and pass down to my offspring? Agh. Even I can’t swallow that. But, it’s so pretty!

When I was a kid, I had my own sense of style. A style which generated the argyle sock incident of 93′. “Are you wearing your grandpa’s socks?!” Rachel had asked me and then burst into laughter. I was wearing knee-high blue and yellow socks that I thought were the coolest. Then there was the rumor in 6th grade that all my clothes came from the thrift store (gasp!) which, as it turned out, was mostly true. That was before thrifting was hip. In 95′ I was the “dyke” at my high school both because I had a proclivity toward boys and girls and because (mostly because, in fact) I had short hair. In a school of 3,000 I was the only person who both identified as female and also had short hair. It was a dark time in my small town. And, it was pre-Halle Berry looking all shorn and gorgeous.

I look around and see stylish people, lots of them in fact, because I live in New York City. And, I love the way they look. The seemingly effortless flawlessness. The aura of confidence and cool. The way their shoes are the perfect match for their shorts, which cling in all the right ways. And, their shirts are spotless and pressed and their necklaces hang just so. And their hair? Well, it’s just a different universe on top of those heads. Filled with curling irons and hairsprays, gels and products of all varieties.

So many beautiful people. It’s great, honestly. Makes for wonderful people-watching. But, I also can’t help but sort of look down at my dingy, coffee-stained blouse, my gap shorts and my Park Slope mom shoes and think, who is this person? How does my style reflect who I am? When you’re young you have the luxury of wearing your personality on your outsides. Then, you get a job and you have to start conforming to certain standards and dress codes (depending on the job, I suppose). It’s so limiting. Because, the truth is, if you work five days a week (or more) then you’re mostly wearing work clothes. And, if you’re mostly wearing work clothes then you’re mostly buying them. Then, before you know it, you dress that way on your days off too. Because, what if you run into the super conservative parent of the child in your class whilst wearing your shortest, tattered jeans and a tiny tank top with no bra?

This is how it happened. Slowly. It crept through my wardrobe one item at a time. I bought one pair of gap shorts then four more. A simple gingham top and then a denim one and then that was all I had. Then, I needed comfortable shoes because…I’m on my feet all day and I have back issues. I had a baby and grew two sizes so tons of things just got tossed out (never to be seen or heard from again — the clothes or the previous dress size) and it continued on down the line. I never go out, this dress will probably never fit again, it’s ripped anyhow, and on and on.

Sometimes I think about dying my hair or shaving half my head and I know it would shift peoples’ perception of me. Some would think I was way cooler. Some wouldn’t hardly notice. A few would be offended and some might even have the audacity to complain. My first job working as a teacher’s assistant up in Yonkers in 2001 was a disaster due to my fashion choices. I worked for half a day before being pulled aside by my supervisor who told me the principal was concerned about my appearance and that, unless I took my septum ring out, I would not be allowed to continue working there.

I refused. And, got fired. But, that was fourteen years ago. Before I needed to make rent and buy diapers.

Now, I drool over beautiful, too-expensive backpacks and worry I’m too old to pull things off. I stare longingly at hip-punk girls with bleached hair and tattoos. And, I wonder things like: Does the way we look determine who we are? Or, does who we are determine the way we look? At the very least, the way we look determines how we are perceived. And, then I think about choices. The choice to live in a diverse and welcoming city. The choice to have a career that is still quite socially conservative. And, how sometimes you compromise on one thing you love to get a thing you love more.

And, then I think, relax, it’s just clothes.

on not trying

When I was in high school my daily uniform was a pair of blue or black Dickies with a belt, a faded thrift store t-shirt and a cardigan. I donned one stars or converse and I wore my hair in a short pixie cut.

If I decided to dress up, I wore platform shoes, a thrifted dress or skirt and a grandpa sweater. Occasionally my mom would save up or my grandmother would give her some cash and we’d go to JCPennys and splurge on new shirts. Or, we’d hit Ross for a new dress and a nice pair of shoes. I wore makeup onstage. Never off.

My friend Joanna was like a different species. She had stacks of high fashion magazines, books about how to apply makeup for different occasions and a credit card that her parents entrusted to her for whatever she deemed necessary. Her bathroom looked like a pharmacy — filled with tonics and creams, toners and foundations, a rainbow of lipsticks, eyeshadow and a garden of perfumes. I remember lifting the lids from those delicate glass bottles, each like a tiny potion, magical, mystical, enchanting. She had a weekday scent and a weekend scent, a special occasion smell and an eau de date elixir which was particularly jasmin-y.

Joanna had a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. Her parents were both doctors and they lived in a giant house at the top of a hill overlooking a gorgeous vineyard. She had a hot tub and cable television and her own car. To me, she was living like the rich and famous.

Joanna introduced me to glitter. And, to accessories. She loaned me her makeup books and gave me tubes of gels and lotions she deemed unfit for her skin type.

She had a brother and a sister, both of whom played instruments, went to college and led what could only be considered normal, healthy lives. In stark contrast to my siblings who were getting kicked out of school (if they were attending at all) deeply involved with drugs and alcohol, and either in serious (and seriously abusive relationships) or living unhealthy lives of solitude and loneliness.

Joanna’s life represented the life I could have led. If my parents were honest and driven and, you know, not polygamists.

We were both good students. Great, even. Honors classes, tons of extracurriculars, college-bound. We had focus. And drive. Something not a lot of our peers had. Joanna was determined to be rich and famous. By any means — modeling, acting, music, writing — whatever medium got her there, she didn’t care. She knew exactly what she wanted.

I, on the other hand, was fueled by the theater. I loved to sing and dance too. But, I knew I needed to be an actor when I grew up. Broadway in New York City. That was my fantasy. I knew it wouldn’t be lucrative but I didn’t care. I would be fulfilled and I would be living my dream in the big city. Where no one knew who I was and no one knew where I came from.

Life took a few turns. I zigged and zagged and ended up on a very different path. When I got into my dream college, which had been chosen for its impressive theater program, I immediately decided to put acting on hold. Academics, I decided. That’s what college is supposed to be about. I did a few productions my first year, The Vagina monologues and some modern take on Greek dramas, but mostly I studied. And read. And, attended lectures and sit-ins. I protested and I drafted petitions, I fought close to home (unionize our food service employees) and far from home (WB/WTF, anti-war, anti-Bush) I marched and made signs and attended workshops on what to do when you get arrested.

I lost acting somewhere along the way. I got more interested in change. And, then education and reform and living the change I wanted to see.

I’m still not so skilled at applying makeup. I don’t use any special creams. I don’t know a thing about moisturizers or toners (what is the point of a toner?) But, I’m very okay with that. I buy mascara from the drugstore and leave my hair almost exactly as it naturally falls. I loathe blow dryers and I just do not have the patience to put on a full face of makeup every day. I choose comfort over style and efficiency over cutesy. I like the way I look all dolled up but it’s just not sustainable for me. I think you have to really enjoy the process. And, you have to put forth the energy required. I just don’t have it in me. And, something tells me that if it’s not there at 34, it probably ain’t ever showing up.

thirty four is the new eight

I learn a lot about the world from my students.

Today, I’m taking fashion advice from my third grader. She came in with this backpack. And, I’m pretty sure it’s the coolest backpack ever made and obviously I have to have it.

Unknown

She says I can totally pull it off.