Sweater: When I was little, I learned, like many of my fellow children in the U.S, that England, as a concept, was either evil or whimsical. Evil in that Wrong Side in the Revolutionary War, Likely the Presumed Nationality (via accent)of the Bad Guys in all Movies, Definitely Bad Parent, Off With Their Heads kind of way. Whimsical in the 100 acre wood, fairies, dragons, tea cozy, fluffy-hatted guard, wizard hat, storybook village, crumpet sort of way While all evil grown-ups were not necessarily English, all English grown-ups could reliably be considered evil unless they were Julie Andrews (Dick Van Dyke wasn’t fooling anybody, even in pre-school) or maybe—maybe—Paul McCartney. Likewise, while all not all precocious, courageous, and good-hearted children were not necessarily English, all English children could reliably be considered the hero of the piece unless they were explicitly identified as a bully at first introduction.
I don’t know whether this still holds. I imagine Harry Potter has done something to alter this landscape (though JK Rowling herself isn’t doing much to rehabilitate the adult stereotype). I do know that the whimsy went a long way toward cementing my early affection for the UK, as did a childhood spent on the crest of the New Wave, which in and of itself, could be pretty whimsical, and also kind of kind of evil, if we’re being honest.
I knew English people growing up and visited England when I was still young enough to be both impressed by the whimsy and confused as to why retirement accounts were implicated in bombing campaigns. I remember being in England standing with two adorable blonde English kids, who talked like Oliver Twist and looked for all the world like they were about to find a magic key and set off through an enchanted Chippendale linen press to prevent a great evil from rising over the land, and trying to USA-plain their inherent whimsy to them. Which was a challenge because they didn’t seem to recognize the fact that we were standing beside a pond full of swans that were evidently owned by the Queen in front of an actual castle with candy we’d just purchased from what appeared to be an enchanted cottage operated by a woman who looked and sounded like Angela Lansbury as anything out of the ordinary.
“But think about something simple. Like the thing he thing you cross the road on. The crosswalk. What do you call that?”
“A zebra,” said the girl.
“How is that not whimsical? That is absurdly, almost obscenely whimsical. It would be seen overkill if a children’s book author tried to get away with it. A zebra. God.”
This is a clearly a paraphrase. I didn’t sound quite like that when I was twelve. But the point stands. Zebra. And not just Zebra, but Zebra, rhymes with Debra. I don’t feel like we have anything so whimsical[1] and I’m from the South, a part of the country where dialect quizzes continually trying to convince me that my neighbors describe sunlight in a thunderstorm as “doodaddling the devil’s dresssing gown on the happy highway to heaven town” or something (I verily believe southerners have been Sub Pop-employeeing credulous northern linguists for centuries).
Because of all this, zebras, the animals, have always struck me as one of the world’s most whimsical creatures, especially when they appear anywhere outside their natural habitat, like on wallpaper, on cosmetic bags, on sweaters, or in Maryland (briefly my favorite news story of 2022 and I wish it had a happier ending). I may have mentioned this aloud, probably in reference to the Maryland bit, at a time close enough to the holidays to give people in my life an idea. This is dangerous. This is how you end up with a bookshelf menagerie of novelty zebra knick-knacks. Fortunately, people kept it together. And this sweater, my favorite shade of mustard, condiment of the gods, was zebra gift perfection.
Skirt Situation: Speaking of whimsical. Where are we on adults dressing like toddlers? I have described myself in the past as dressing a bit a toddler with too much spending money. I own more than one skirt that could accurately be described as a tutu. I am famous for clicking on a clothing ads only to find that they are dresses made for children. I mean, duh, zebra sweater.
I wore a lot of stretch minis over leggings in my adolescence, the era of Multiples, when a segment of the mall-fashion industry taught an entire generation of impressionable teenagers that a tube top could be a skirt could be a belt could be a Cowl neck-dicky/scarf situation This was great for teenage budgets and terrible for being told we not leave the house in that, what would people think?
There’s an argument that this skirt (part of that lineage), which is technically a pair of leggings with a built-in skirt, is pure “Romper Room” material. But it’s also kind of brilliant for its utility, especially if you’re the sort of person inclined to wear a mini skirt and sit like an entitled cowboy on a subway, or if you’re still conflicted about whether or not leggings count as pants this gives a little cover, pun intended.
100% would recommend.
The Outfit: Still sniffly, I cleaned out my closet and pulled a pile to add to the once and future yard sale inventory that has been crowding my garage since roughly I moved in and had a garage. I made some chicken salad with grapes and tarragon. I watched “The New Look” on Apple TV+, which is going way too easy on Coco Chanel’s Nazi involvement. I drank a glass of champagne on top of cold medicine and cruised through some contentious political arguments at home and abroad from the remove of my laptop. Then I went out a looked at the stars for a while. Please understand: I am not against a contentious political argument. Some might even argue that I enjoy them too much. But foreign affairs are breaking my heart. And it’s an election year. And I live in a swing state. There will be plenty of hollering to come. I promise.
In other news, if residual part of this cold does not go away soon, I am going to lose my mind, and possibly my upper lip.
Sweater: Anthropologie, 2021
Skirt/Leggings: Marcella NYC, 2024
Boots: Dr. Martens, 2022
Earrings: Bellagio, Asheville, 2023
[1] Similarly I am choosing to believe the Princess of Wales’ claim that she “experiments with editing photos” is whimsical English speak for “I have been enjoying a prolonged Roman Holiday-style sabbatical, during which I have learned about metalworking, toured with a heavy metal band, experienced a wide and fulfilling variety of sexual experiences, and am currently completing a monograph on Fashion and Anarchy from an undisclosed location in Mexico, but thank you for making sure I have not been murdered by the family. We’re technically a couple of dynasties past that, though I understand your concern.”
Tiny Commotions 