But as soon as I arrived in New York, I immediately felt uncomfortable. I mean, people look GOOD here. They put thought and purpose into their sense of style. Their ambition bleeds from their tapered wrists, waistlines and cuffs. And the shoes! God forbid I click-clack around in my flip flops or clunk down the street in my tattered boots. Shoes are to New Yorkers what cars are to Californians. Nothing so readily reveals your style.
I could get away without being fashionable for a little while under the "he just moved here" guise. But I've now been here for over a year and that just doesn't cut it anymore. So when my friend Richie invited me to his black & white-themed birthday party, it's no surprise that I panicked. I love my friend Richie, but there was no way I was prepared to stand in front of the firing squad of his fashionista friends. The flames shooting out of their disapprovingly pointed fingers would sear away what little material was left of my jeans.
You see, I always pretended I never cared about fashion. That I simply wasn't built to be that materialistic. I'd rather put my money into dinners with friends (or kitschy kitchen appliances) than clothes. I'm the type who goes shopping once a year with my grandmama's Christmas money. I buy everything all at once, usually in three of every color. It seemed so silly to me to spend $200 on a pair of jeans, when that money could just as easily be spent on a candy apple red Kitchen-Aid mixer.
But I'd also happened to have recently watched the Vogue magazine documentary, The September Issue. At the start of the movie, Anna Wintour (aka The Ice Queen) says, "On the whole, people that say demeaning things about our world, I think that's usually because they feel in some ways excluded or not part of the cool group. So as a result, they just mock it. There is something about fashion that can make people very nervous." Something about that hit home to me. Why was I so afraid to be nervous? Wasn't the whole purpose for moving to New York to push myself outside of my comfort zone? So when Richie offered to take me to his friend's high fashion store, Behaviour, I pulled on my track pants and bravely, if grumpily, relented.I have to hand it to the store personnel. They hid their smirks well and were really helpful. I was thinking I would get some black pants and a simple white shirt. After all, I already had this black skinny tie I'd bought from Armani Exchange that I was immensely proud of and dying to put to good use. I would look just like Justin Timberlake! But the sales guy just rolled his eyes at me and said, "No. It's a black & white theme party. Everyone will be doing that. You need to go with something more unexpected." I didn't have the heart to tell him that just tucking my shirt in would, for me, be unexpected.
Next thing I knew I was being shoved into the changing room with a tight, black button-down and a pair of black skinny jeans. Wait, let me repeat that 'cause I don't think you heard me: skinny jeans! I mean, seriously? How would the cuffs ever fit over my boots? And did this guy really expect me to wear all black? I mean, how New York can you get, right?
Sighing heavily, I painted the jeans onto my considerable calves and did my best to hide my backfat in what little there was of the shirt folds. As I stepped out of my fashion closet and into the light of the showroom, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the reaction. The cute, young sales guy turned around and said simply, "you look very handsome." Well, as you can imagine I all but beamed back at him and immediately handed him my credit card. I left just as excited about that compliment as I was about getting back into the expandable waistline of my track pants.
But my outfit was not yet complete. Richie explained that the shirt had these little built-in slots that a pair of suspenders were meant to be pulled through. So next I found myself at American Apparel buying a pair of black ones. Having had quite enough for one day, I refused to try the entire outfit on in the store. I instead satisfied myself with seeing how everything looked together later that night in the comfort and privacy of my own home - where I could later feign a flu that would render me unable to attend the party.
Getting ready that night I sucked down three glasses of wine in rapid succession, put on some country music to calm my nerves, and tried everything on. Now, if you've never tried on suspenders by yourself let me tell you, you need to be nothing short of a contortionist to get those things on. As soon as I clamped down one side of this black bra without boobs, the other side would snap off. I was like a dizzy dog turning in circles, chasing my skinny jean tail. But I finally got everything together and looked into the mirror: black shirt, black jeans, black suspenders, black shoes. I felt like a freakin' mime.
That night at the party, I actually got a lot of attention. My hipster friend Marvin couldn't stop complimenting me and I even ended up making out with this hot trendy gay I met. It wasn't until later that I found out I'd unfortunately committed a deeply offensive faux-paus. Oh, my outfit was mostly well received. But for those who happened to look all the way down, they found square-toed shoes anchoring me to the ground. Apparently, square toes went out about ten years ago. You know...about the time I'd actually bought the shoes.But New York is about nothing if not dusting yourself off and trying again. So here I am, all ready to look for labels. And hopefully some new shoes to point me in the right direction.
