Animus

I've been struggling with what could be called "writer's block," but that would be presumptuous as I am not truly a writer in the classical sense. Is there a thing called "blogger's block?" If so, that's what I've had.....until this morning.

This morning I took out the New York Times' Magazine, as usual, and out came the obnoxiously fat, tree-killing, toxic ink filled Eye Candy: Women's Fashion Fall 2007. Normally I happily toss these special editions into the recycle bin without a glance. For some unknown reason I decided to flip through this ventilation of style. Perhaps this was caused by some imbalance of my limbic system or the need for more greens in my diet. Regardless of the reason, it did help me break out of my literary stagnation. And it PISSED ME OFF!

Now, I am not against looking nice, wearing clothes that make you feel attractive, getting a haircut that is flattering, but I do have a problem with so-called high fashion. Let's not get into the bit about how no normal shaped people can wear any of it, or afford it if they could wear it, or want to be seen dead in most of it. Let's skip right to the part about the waste of human resources and what a slap in the face it is to most of the earthly population. The amount of time and money put into this vapid industry is staggering! And who does it benefit? Who??? If Dior or Vera Wang were to suddenly disappear from the planet, would the balance of nature be thrown out of whack? Would the glaciers melt or the temperature of the oceans suddenly rise? It might change the economic status of some small community in China, throwing its slave labor into the street, but it would not cause any major shift in the space time continuum. Imagine what could be done with that money! The people it could house and feed....and clothe! It isn't a club to which I feel the need to belong.....anymore.

When I was a kid, we lived in West Palm Beach, Florida. West Palm was to the west (on the mainland) of one of one of the world's Mecca's of vacuousness - Palm Beach. We drove over to "the island" every weekend to mingle with the rich folk. We strolled through the shops on Worth Avenue (ironically named, I think) and sunned on its beaches. As a teen, I crashed parties at The Breakers on New Year's Eve and pretended to be staying at a number of the other high-class hotels while using their pools or private beaches. This required a great deal of planned dialogue with my cohorts that could be heard by other patrons to prove our rightful belonging. These fake conversations included references to our yacht, our trip to St. Barts, a visit to our Aunt in Cannes, etc. Any mention of a sale at Jordan Marsh or problems with one's Dodge Dart were strictly forbidden for they could blow your cover in a heart beat! Also, the carrying of a stolen room key was essential for credibility. (One of our cohorts actually lived in Palm Beach as a child, before her parents' fall from grace and economic decline, and had several important icons from her past that allowed us access to forbidden places.)

I would like to think that I didn't go to these places so much because of a desire to be like these people - I thought they were rude and ridiculous for the most part - but because I wanted to put one over on them, so to speak. I wanted to wear my Sears bought bathing suit in their gold-plated pools and my K-Mart flip flops on their teak decks and rub it in their face. I wanted them to know that they had nothing on me. Oh yes, I bought my requisite Izod shirt at the Izod store on the Ave, I wore my Speary Topsider shoes, and I ate at the absurdly overpriced Hamburger Heaven with my mother, but I like to think that I never bought into all the "we are better than you" crap that flowed like honey over there. One of my high school buddies worked for Gucci on the Ave and was in charge of taking care of the designer's apartment above the shop. We spent several evenings wandering through the apartment, spying on the inner workings of the über-rich. Guess what - they have to buy toilet paper and foot cream, just like everybody else. I'm not sure where I'm going with all this but it just seemed like something I needed to get out.

As I sit in my bed wearing my Olympic National Park T-shirt and my pajama bottoms with dancing reindeer on them, I reflect on what it means to be stylish and what if any importance this has on my ability to function in this world. I do think that beauty has it's place - in nature, mostly - and it would not be a happy world if we all dressed and looked alike. I just wish we could do it within reason and not at the expense of others.