Nothing to Wear

I generally don’t wear words. When I did time in the Preppy Handbook hell they call an all-girls academy, this was largely in opposition to the initial-ridden handbags that had just become popular, as well as Benetton sweaters knit with a giant ‘B’. Ah, the ‘80s. Why would I want a wallet with someone else’s initials stamped all over it? Reluctantly, I put away my “I’d rather be watching General Hospital” baseball shirt with the lavender sleeves and matching, braided headband.

In young adulthood, I took to heart the words of Fran Lebowitz: “If people don’t want to listen to you, what makes you think they want to hear from your sweater?” A worthy question, I think. By now the ban is mostly left over habit, though I can’t think what I would have the urge to say to each and every passerby, nor am I likely to find such a communiqué printed on a T-shirt.

I’m also allergic to animal prints. I grew up prejudiced against them the same way I was against tattoos. It simply isn’t done, insists the voice in my head snottily. My friend Scarlett is the first person I ever saw who made an animal print look classy and fabulous, in a Jackie O sort of way. I still admire her for it. There’s no chance I could pull it off; I just look like trailer trash, and the cheetah-print leggings are not helping.

These days there are more quotes, sayings and words as tattoos than ever before, which triggers an exaggerated form of my dissatisfaction with T-shirt slogans. Tattoos are for truck drivers and tramps, my mother told me. And Popeye. That’s clearly no longer the case. Still, I don’t have the courage for that kind of commitment. I imagine, though, if forced to choose I’d have “DNR” tattooed over my heart. It seems like the right mix of practical and amusing.

I don’t wear socks (except with sneakers and snow boots), and haven’t for decades. I know this because I’ve had the same five or six pairs of socks in all that time. Let’s chalk that one up to an affinity for Miami Vice. Plus my feet like to breathe. Worse, I can’t wear hats, though I very much wish I could. I have a preternaturally large head. I also have friends who take me to hat stores purposely to perch the things on my prodigious pate and giggle at the result.

With all these rules and prohibitions related to clothing, you’d think what I have left to wear wouldn’t be all that complicated. Indeed I thought of myself as having a low-risk wardrobe – right up until the day I picked up the keys to my new apartment. There I was, chatting among new neighbors and other blameless bystanders, when an important safety pin gave up the ghost and my skirt fell to the floor.

If you’re going to drop trou’ in public, I say shoot for Manhattan during rush hour: go big or go home. The leasing office for Stuyvesant Town / Peter Cooper Village is housed in one of the few strip-malls in the city, complete with wide, sunny plate glass windows which maximize the opportunity for public humiliation in a swirl of fabric and spring fashion colors.

What does one say in such circumstances? There must be proper etiquette when one’s trousers are suddenly, unexpectedly, publicly around one’s ankles. I never got that far. I panicked and was in little control of what came out of my mouth. And what came out of my mouth, as I crouched down to pick up the bottom half of my suit, was:

Goodness GRACIOUS!

Telling, isn’t it? If I’m honest, it’s not what I expected. I’d figured myself for a swearer. But there you have it – in the heat of a stressful moment I sound just like Nonnie, my grandmother.

I’ve decided that’s not such a bad thing. It’s also clear to me now that one cannot, in reality, die of embarrassment. More’s the pity, really, as I expect my tattoo would come in handy in the event.