Where has all the glamour gone?

Of sweatsuits, French manicures, Vinny the Chin and tiny little women with big demands.

Not for daywear, not for travel, maybe for prison.

Not for daywear, not for travel, maybe for prison, but only minimum security.

Having strolled the avenues and byways of this planet for more decades than I will ever admit to, I have seen a fair sampling of humanity. In airports, grocery stores, doctor’s offices and even the occasional holding cell, I frequently find myself cheek by jowl with people from every walk of life, social strata and ethnic group.

By dint of living in New York, I even encounter the odd celebrity, as, for example, I did on one of the upper floors of the Plaza Hotel in 1989. This was my first ever celebrity sighting, so it sticks in my memory. I was actually there to look at corporate meeting rooms when lo and behold, I spied the original Mrs. Trump, Ivana, standing by the elevators with a hapless flunky who was looking more like a whipped dog than an uptown interior decorator as a result of the tongue lashing he was receiving about the progress and direction of renovations to the hotel. If memory serves, Ivana was about the size of a toothbrush and was repeating the same thing over and over, “No, no, NO, I vant goldt!” Truly a moment for the ages.

Anyhow, I share this by way of noting that she looked fabulous — exquisitely tailored pantsuit, coordinating stilettos, Louis Vuitton binder and a beehive that Patsy Stone would have killed for. Her lipstick was intact despite the fact that she had clearly been flapping her gums for some little time, and you could have sliced a baguette on the creases of her trousers. Ivana the Terrible was, in a word, glamorous.

Now THAT'S a nail job. Courtesy delightfullittlethings.com

Now THAT’S a hand job. Courtesy delightfullittlethings.com

Sure she was old school, but as we all know, there are infinite ways to do glamour. Just last week I saw a gorgeous African American woman of Amazonian proportions on the subway. She was sporting canary yellow leggings, matching thigh high boots and bag, and was rocking a coordinating manicure and a gold streaked Lady Godiva weave. The color was fabulous with her skin, there was not one hair out of place, and she was sublimely confident. I longed to ask her where she’d scored the footwear, as it’s so very difficult to find high style boots with wide shafts, but reconsidered after hearing her excoriate the man standing next to her who had the effrontery to stare. It was an extremely admiring stare, and rightly so, but since she took exception I decided to keep still.

In the event I have any male readers left at this point, let me point out that glamour is not an exclusively female domain. Recently, at the corner bodega of all places, I spotted a hipster guy in high tops, jeans, a white shirt and a vintage tuxedo jacket. He was buying gourmet beef jerky, coffee and Red Bull, so although I shuddered at the state of his gastrointestinal tract, he nonetheless had an elegant je ne sais quoi that would have stood him in good stead in almost any social setting — until the Red Bull and cowhide made their presence known, symphonically, several hours hence, anyway.

Just stepping out for a smoke and a stroll.Via wmob.com.

Just stepping out for a smoke and a stroll.
Via wmob.com.

The point of all this is that glamour is many things to many people. What makes me feel good (three inch heels, a pencil skirt and a martini) may not work for you, especially if you prefer yoga pants and a t-shirt. Provided both fit properly, the pants have been hemmed so as not to drag on the ground, and your dirty hair is pulled back in a tidy ponytail, this can work. At the gym. Where it doesn’t work is at Bloomingdale’s, jury duty or parent teacher conferences, which are just a few of the places I have spotted this “look.”

And then of course there are the pajama pants. If you recall, appearing in public in your sleepwear used to be a pretty solid strategy for your insanity defense. These days, however,  you can’t swing a cat on the street without hitting some schmuck in penguin patterned loungewear. It’s sad really. Sad to see grown-up people with jobs and mortgages walking around town looking like they’re on a day pass from a nearby facility where no one’s allowed to have shoelaces or belts.

Aw c'mon. This is not nice.

Aw c’mon. You don’t own even ONE half slip?

But as bad as the slovenliness is, the near nudity is even worse: thongs on the beach, muffin tops oozing over skinny jeans and the dreadful tank top that inflicts backne, tattoos and scraggly chest wisps on a blameless public. It’s as if we’ve all stumbled into a D-list Abercrombie shoot featuring a bunch of Kardashians, a couple of Wahlberg wannabes and assorted wardrobe malfunctions being passed off as fashion. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not have the image of Kim’s bum seared on my consciousness for the rest of my life, and yet I cannot seem to escape it.

At the risk of sounding like my grandmother, I can remember a time when people bothered about their appearance, and society as a whole had certain expectations. Men wore hats, women wore stockings, everyone wore underwear. You couldn’t see it of course, but you just knew it was there, largely because all fabrics other than flannel were scratchy and unpleasant next to the skin. Underwear provided a necessary buffer zone between the more delicate areas and abrasive tropical wools, heavily starched linens and that miracle of drip-dry miracles, rayon. and rightly so.

Via Esquire, courtesy Fotonoticias/Getty Images.

Via Esquire, courtesy Fotonoticias/Getty Images.

These days, it seems not a week goes by that we’re not assaulted by the sight of some starlet’s deforested lady parts, a random pedestrian’s whale tail, or highly compensated movie stars dressed for a day in the sandbox at work. I mean, c’mon Adam, we love you, but isn’t it time to shave and put on your big boy suit? I know you’ve got one.

So listen folks, it’s a new year and time for a fresh start. Toss out all those baggy surrender t-shirts, childish pajama pants (you know you’ve worn them to the grocery store) and ill-fitting sweat items. Slip into some stretchy new undergarments, coordinated separates and shiny shoes and show the world your glamorous bad self for a change. I guarantee you’ll get treated better on airplanes, at work and in restaurants (admit it, you do want to eat in places where it matters). As an added bonus, I can stop beating this dead horse and start writing important posts wherein I demonstrate how ontogeny really does recapitulate phylogeny or discuss whether Spinoza’s reconciliation of the mind-body problem still holds water. Or maybe I’ll just go back to flogging recipes. Either way, it’s win-win for us all.

About WSW

Writer, wife, mother. Toiler in the bottomless, black, soul-sucking coal mine of domestic life. Thank God for the portable bar.

Posted on January 14, 2013, in Commentary, Rants and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 28 Comments.

  1. You’ve inspired me. I’m going to get up off this chair, take a shower to clean the flu residue off myself and get dressed in real clothes. There’s no reason I can’t look good while I suffer.

  2. Oh my… I’ve been out of the country for too long! Do people actually wear PJ’s in public??? When did that start? And I used to wince when I saw executives wearing sneakers/trainers to and from work… back in the 80′s!

    • You would not believe what people walk out of the house upholstered in these days. Here’s a revamping of a favorite quote for you: “I may have smoked on the street, but I have never walked down Broadway in my pajama bottoms.” ;)

  3. Saw a guy at Whole Pay Check the other evening at 5pm wearing pajamas. Felt like walking up to him and saying I don’t care if you’re sick, but what is your thought process of entering a public place where that.

  4. Awesome post. I guess I should not send you the his and hers rhinestone purple velvet lounge outfits for you and Mr. Slattern then, eh? Made in China, probably 20 sizes too small and the purple will stay on your skin forever.

    • Tempting, Susan. Very tempting. If I ever need to attend a party as a blinged out Oompa Loompa, you’ll be the first person I call for costume support.

  5. My neighbour hopped into her car and drove her kids to school yesterday. I wept. I should also consider another neighbourhood.

  6. Hmmm, bit of a quandary here. Yep, dressing nicely is both a pleasure and a compliment to others. I used to have at least 14 suits, dozens of ties, a similar number of coordinating (NON-CARTOON!) socks.
    Decent jeans, decent non slogan tee shirts, smart casual gear. Yep. I’ve never worn trainers in my life.
    Alas I’ve fallen on hard times, and elegance is a thing of the past.
    But I can still sneer at the back of a thong and a butt crack tattoo peeking out of the top of a pair of too-small jeans.
    Can’t I? It’s just plain wrong, isn’t it?

    I remain, madam,
    Your obedient servant,
    Curmudgeon de Fluffy

  7. After the Golden Globes last night I’ve about oded on glamor. Where I live if you’re out in your pj’s there’s a good chance that the police will take notice. I’m not so old fashioned that I believe you must dress to go grocery shopping (if you don’t know or are under 60 ask your nearest relative who was adult during the fifties).

  8. Yes, yes, and yes to all of the above! It makes such a difference to see people dress well, and not just fashionably but well for their body type. I work at a place that would be classified as blue collar but I still like dressing nice at work. Even if nobody else cares, I noticed that I carry myself differently than I would if I wore my yoga pants. And you really do get treated better at so many establishments when you clean up a bit. I’m right there with you on the stilettos and pencil skirts, got to love a nod to glamour!

  9. The latest thing I see is mismatched socks. On purpose. I know it is on purpose because I’ve asked. All the young people have on pyjama pants with mismatched socks.

  10. It saddens me that my generation can’t tell the difference between professional wear, daytime wear and clubwear. It seems like everywhere you go its see-through button ups, short tight skirts and platform heels.

    • If I had my way office dress codes would be totally Draconian — my theory is that the more uncomfortable people are, the more likely they are to remember they’re at work rather than a wet t-shirt contest.

  11. Ack! I HATE seeing grown-ups in public wearing PJ bottoms. Are they so lazy that they simply couldn’t bother to get dressed? And what sort of statement do a pair of Daffy Duck or Winnie The Pooh or Power Rangers pants make? It is my pet peeve–one of many, I must admit. And I also hate daisy duke-length shorts with high boots. Yes, Julia Roberts looked great in them–but she was also playing the role of a hooker.
    OMG, I sound so angry today. lol. I’m really not. Honest.

  1. Pingback: Advice: Auntie Slattern’s corrections department | Kitchen Slattern

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