Truth Thursday
I feel the great need to riff a little more on a column written a couple of months ago by my Current Mom colleague, Stacy Feuer, in which she asked readers what they wore to work. The answer to that question for me has undergone a profound transformation from 1984, when I first set out, briefcase in hand, to conquer the work world.
At my first job, working in a boutique PR firm in New York City, I needed Ann Taylor suits and Alcott & Andrews linen separates, and when I was feeling like I could dress down a little, a polka dotted Laura Ashley dress. This was all complemented by the fad of the time, off-white hose and either black patent pumps or (don't gasp) white shoes (but only in the summer.)
I was learning how to dress for success during a time when women in corporate America felt they had to look like men in order to succeed. Remember the droopy ties over boxy suits? That was my boss in my second job. And of course, we all had our Reebok sneakers and white socks that we wore with our hose when we commuted, a tortured product of the 1980 New York City transit strike when working women had to figure out how to walk to work.
Today, I have a much more comfortable and personally suitable work wardrobe, much of which simply morphs from my casual clothes into work clothes. Even though I work at home a great deal (think yoga pants), I enjoy getting dressed for the office and appreciate a good black dress with a great accessory and cool shoes (but no hose unless they're tights) as well a great pair of slimming pants with a jacket. The work world has come a long way in its dress code since 1984, and in many ways, for the better.
Clothing is such an important part of our identity. It is the way we express who we are, and it has the power to make us feel, on any given day, slim, fat, powerful, schleppy, in control, reckless, tall, short, well heeled or down at the heels, having a bad day or simply fabulous.
So in fact, my work clothes are the not the clothes I think about when I remember my clothing choices over the years. There is a wonderful book by Ilene Beckerman, "Love, Loss and What I Wore," which tells the story of its author's life through pictures and captions of what she wore at key moments.
Growing up in the '70s and '80s gives me a particularly hilarious vantage point on clothing remembrance. At camp in the summers of 1976 and 1977, my red tube top, purchased at the Kings Plaza mall with my own money the winter before, was the key ingredient to a successful Friday night dance. Back in school during those same junior high years, I had one pair of Faded Glory jeans and two real Huckapoo shirts (as opposed to the knock offs that my mother bought me at Joyce Leslie.) Whenever I wore that outfit, I knew I belonged.
In my younger years, the stretchy fabric du jour was Danskin. Remember those Garanimals-like matching t-shirts and pants? I had one in orange and one in purple, which I alternated. As I grew older and had more control over my clothing purchases, I moved through both my Annie Hall phase, during which I stole my father's shirts and ties, and wore baggy pants and granny glasses, into my hippie days, where I stole my father's shirts (sans the ties) and wore them with my overalls and Earth shoes.
Getting to college offered a whole new world of sartorial lessons and challenges. The boho/hippie mantra was never far from my closet, but I also made new friends who knew about such things as Topsiders and Fair Isle sweater sets. The preppie look never really worked for me, but I pursued its call for a while anyway. Thankfully, by my senior year, Bennetton sweaters from the outlet, which had a little more flair, had become the coveted object of choice.
My first work interview suit was a worsted wool number that came from Loehmann's. Grey, shapeless and with a dowdy skirt that hit at the most unflattering part of my leg, I probably looked more like an old fashioned school marm than a young professional eager to learn. On the other hand, mom years initially proved easy – every top I owned had a spit-up line down the back for the first six months of each of my children's lives, and so it didn't really matter what I wore at home. As I made the transition from full time work to part-time work to working mostly at home, my clothing, along with society, made the transition into easier, more comfortable fabrics and styles as well.
But there is still something utterly thrilling about scoring that perfect item of clothing that will rock your world.
At my first job (which I got despite the grey suit,) I worked with an incredibly glamorous young woman who was having an affair with one of our clients. He whisked her off to Paris for the weekend, and he bought her an Elsa Peretti silver bangle bracelet from Tiffany. How I coveted that bracelet (not to mention the trips to Paris.) Many years later, I scored a great knockoff of that bracelet for myself, and every time I wear it, I think of whisking off to Paris in a jet on a moment's notice.
One of the things I miss most about my younger days and living with roommates is the opportunity to expand my wardrobe by two. Both of my close friends in Brooklyn had interesting closets and we so enjoyed rifling through each other's things in search of that perfect outfit to wear to the weekend party. My husband's closet, rife with Dockers and boring button down shirts, just doesn't offer up the same thrill.
One of those friends and I hit the Paramus mall, circa 1987, and found a Calvin Klein duster - having huge shoulder pads and a dusky orange/mustardy color, it skimmed the floor. It was perfect. It was on sale for $75, originally $300. Instead of sharing, which we considered, we each bought one, and we both wore them for years. It still hangs in my closet, and although I would never wear it today, it's so filled with memories I can't part with it.
When I was a teen, the object of my lust was a pair of old Levi's that my mother had stored up in the far reaches of her closet shelves. They were obviously a sentimental relic from her own teenage years. I stole them whenever I could. They made me so look cool.
Today, my daughter, who is 12, is starting to skulk in my closet, even though she thinks I don't notice. But I do. And when I see something of mine she has purloined, sitting on her floor, I smile. She is starting her own search for the perfect thing to wear. And I hope she has as fun a journey searching for it as I have.
Photo by A_Minor via Flickr
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