SoHopeless
I just started a new job for a company located in Soho. For those of you familiar with Soho in New York City, you know that it's a plethora of fashion, art and snobbery. It is also the hot spot for new media companies, aka 'Silicon Alley.' The name "Soho" simply tells you where you are, and that is South of Houston Street. For me, it's so hopeless.
I'll tell you why.
During my first week on the job, I had a chance to walk around my new neighborhood and was subsequently arrested by the fashion police. The crime: failure to yield at the closet door. My problem: I am fashion challenged.
I grew up in Corporate America, and my attire would always lean toward the standard uniform: suits. My dressing habits reflected the more serious frock and none of the frivolous. I avoided trends like the plague, gleefully passing up garments from the '60s regurgitation (I was never a fan of polyester anyway) and because of my height and the sadomasochistic nature of spike heels, passed them up also. Comfort, style and class was my mantra. However, this past week I realized I was in trouble. There I was right smack in the middle of Soho, a victim of painful mistaken identity. I stood out like a sore thumb in my navy blazer, pinstriped skirt that reached ankle length, smart navy pumps gracing my feet. No, instead of looking pulled together and professional, the image I projected reflected two possible choices:
a. I was a tourist
b. I got off the subway too early
At that particular moment in time, I wanted to shrivel up to the size of a floppy and slip myself into my computer bag. Or better yet, turn the bag inside out and drape myself head to toe in black. Now don't get me wrong. I am a huge fan of black. New Yorkers are notorious for draping themselves in the darkness of black only because it hides the dirt and soot oozing from the city itself. But I get tired of black. It's depressing, everyone here wears it, and I am much livelier when adorning myself with a splash of color. Typical black outfits I put together include black shirt, black skirt or pants, black stockings, black shoes, brightly colored blazer. But I digress.
When home, I prefer sneakers, jeans and t-shirts. The jeans are ripped at the knees, the t-shirts are non-descript but usually white, and the sneakers are whatever brand I feel like wearing. (As far as I'm concerned, sneakers promote feet orgasms.) As a resident of the Upper West Side, I wouldn't be caught dead walking around in this outfit. (Perhaps I should relocate to the East Village.) No, the sneakers are replaced with black loafers, the t-shirt covered with a black blazer. See? I really do wear black. One might surmise that this preoccupation with attire might be indicative of a deeply-rooted problem: a desire to fit in. On the contrary, that's not the case. It's the exact opposite, and that is my desire not to stand out or call attention to myself. I prefer walking the streets of Manhattan incognito, sort of like the 'girl in the plastic bubble' only without the shields up protection. If I wanted attention, I could spray paint my body in gold and walk around that way.
Unfortunately, I am caught between the desire to dress appropriately for work, my twisted need to dress for the neighborhood, and most important of all: comfort. On weekends, unless the shopping fairy kicks me in the butt to venture into other neighborhoods in search of clothing, I'm left with nothing more than slumming in my own backyard. The selection of stores here include Ann Taylor (for the corporate consumer), Talbots (for the old money), or D's (which is home to the $500+ clothing set), so I'm pretty much screwed. It means that I have to sift through frocks offered by The Gap (preppie), Banana Republic (in between preppie and appropriate), and Zan (if you're a size 2 it works well.)
It gets worse. In my vain attempt at acquiring hipness and politically correct fashion sense, I have resorted to reviewing clothing style with my two nieces, who live by hip. Imagine the pitiful and truly embarrassing niece inquiries: "can Aunt Cindy wear this?" Also, one of my sisters used to make serious fun of me, because she said I "always matched." At one point during a period of showing up at family functions with the requisite quantity of beige garments on my body, my sister was so incensed with my matching neurosis that she pulled up my skirt to see if my underwear was beige too.
I think the real reason I am so hung up on attire is having been subjected long ago to an aunt who didn't give a damn what she wore. Massive quantities of cleavage always greeted me when I'd see her, garish gold-painted talons in place of tasteful manicures, too-tight clothing, overbearing perfume and an obvious disregard for dressing her age. No, she wore everything I wouldn't be caught dead in, and I grew up determined not to fall into that trap. Unfortunately for me, I can't seem to get away from it. An acquaintance, 50-something but style-enhanced for her job and her generation, tried to steer me in the direction of work attire suitable for someone her age. (It's funny, but I don't recall waking up to find that I'd become twenty plus years older than I was yesterday. Last time I checked, gravity hadn't hit yet, and all the body parts meant to be perky still are.)
One day I walked out of my apartment to meet this acquaintance for breakfast. To my horror we had become twins -- she was dressed identically to my weekend outfit: black leggings, black cowboy boots, white t-shirt, denim button-down shirt over that, and a red jacket. ARGH! I was so taken aback by the out-and-out duplication of *my* style that I ran back to my apartment and changed my clothes. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
All of this is so hopeless. I mean, who am I kidding? If I stick to the "all black" mindset, I am setting myself up for a life of perpetual mourning in order to remain invisible on the streets of Manhattan. I've resorted to contacting friends (the denizens of hip) in an effort to seek and find serious fashion assistance. I dream of the Editors-in-Chief of Womens Wear Daily, Harper's Bazaar and Vogue dumping the garments in my closet into garbage bags and replacing them with nothing but style, style and more style. I think about presenting myself to cable TV's "Fashion Emergency."
Until I have discovered how to attire myself in the proper manner for a particular neighborhood, I'll always be on the lookout for the doctor to the fashion challenged.