Tiny Commotions

Sweater: Like many of her generation, my grandmother had pretty clear ideas about aging. She believed, for example, that after a certain point, leggings were irresponsible, that women’s hair should not be too long, that the lack of an available porter/waiter/sales clerk/hotel manager to do exactly her bidding was both ageist and a personal affront, and that at some hard, yet unspecified age, a woman had to make adjustments in where she did her shopping.  I remember watching her stand in the parking lot of the fancy little shopping center down the street from her house, maybe seven or eight years ago, cigarette in hand, watching my aunt go into stores with great consternation

“I can’t believe your Aunt is still shopping at Talbert’s. It is high time for her to grow up and start shopping at Chico’s.”

There are a lot of things about this story that I love.  That Talbot’s became Talbert’s in her Virginia Piedmont “drop an r in one word, put then pick it up in another.” That Nana, the not-quite-ninety year old smoking cigarettes in the parking lot considered herself the abiter of what was proper. That somehow Talbot’s– the chain store most likely to stock a quilted, velvet collared blazer in a fox-hunting print—might somehow register as more inappropriately youthful in contrast to Chico’s—the chain shop that will reliably offer a bedazzled, zebra print tunic in ombre chartreuse—seemed a bit hinky to me, but Nana could not always show the receipts for her rationale (see also: “Everyone knows the Waffle House is a Prositution Ring,” “The Republicans fixed the hole in the ozone layer with their fiscal policy,” etc). My suspicion is that Chico’s produces more clothes that feel Florida appropriate than Talbots, and Nana was very much of the belief that if you have retired and are not spending a significant portion of your year somewhere south of Tampa, brunching distance from Sarasota, then it’s possible you’ve failed at life.  

And who am I to disagree? I’m just now coming into the very middle of middle age and I will admit that the time between me now and me fully embracing my inevitable Eileen Fisher-ish future is probably shorter than I’m fully prepared to admit (amother other things: Eileen Fisher is expensive, y’all. You’ve got to have some serious dough to go full coastal grandma, which for most of us is the only relevant message to take out of any Diane Keaton film, including “Reds”).  People I love love Chicos, and for that reason I sometimes come by things from Chicos, by way of gift of donation. I am a maximalist in every since, but as far as Chico’s is concerned I am the very soul of austerity. Sometimes this doesn’t play well in my favor (years ago I tried to return a plain white blouse I received as a Christmas gift, and literally could not find a single solitary non-bedazzled object in the entire store to exchange it for. Other times, I can find my way around a pair of stretchy black pants or, say, this sweater, which I believe I rescued from my mother’s To Be Donated pile last spring and have worn regularly since.

Skirt: Are we still doing quiet luxury? I sure as shit hope not. There is nothing more depressing than a rich person in head to toe beige except maybe a poor person who trying desperately to look like a rich person by wearing wearing head to toe beige. I mean, look, I find nothing worth celebrating about the fact that we are living through the greatest income inequality since the Gilded Age. But honest to Christ, billionaires, if you’re going to imagine yourself modern day Vanderbilts or French Aristocrats or whatever, the least you can do is build houses that look like wedding cake toppers and start wearing fucking gowns the size of sedans and putting ships in your hair or whatever. You’re preposterously, irresponsibly rich. Own it. Wear a train. Bring satin knickers back. Consider the top hat. Give us peasants something to ogle at least. I mean, nothing makes me want to start polishing the guillotine like some dude with the net worth of a whole continent  trying to appear like he’s just normal guy in a baseball cap that costs $2100.

I bought this skirt about a year ago because I love rose color. In warm, or warm-ish weather, I wear it all the time. I wore it, in fact, to the Beyonce Renaissance tour last August in Maryland. It was the show that almost got rained out. (I want you to know that both I and this satin skirt survived the storm and had the time of our lives).  But before that I wore it to book club one night at a local establishment that occasionally puts in a frose machine when the thermometer goes way up and the weather is sizzling hot. In between discussion of women in pop music, one of my fellow book club members told me she thought my skirt was quiet luxury.  What I want to tell you is that I bought it on sale and it feels exactly like pajamas.

Shoes: During the great midlife crisis, sneaker obsession, I bought at least three pairs of gold sneakers. These were the only Nikes. I love these. They look absolutely fantastic with a black cocktail dress. And really, what else do you even need from a sneaker?

The Outfit: My day job involves periodic photo and film shoots for clients. This last one took place in Maryland and required me renting an SUV so large it probably should have required a commercial drivers license. I only got turned around once, when I took the wrong exit for a Wawa and ended up at the NSA.

I like Maryland. I like its commitment to weird, which feels so much more genuine than the wide variety of places (my hometown for example)that like to advertise how weird they are. I don’t know if it’s their commitment to Old Bay merchandise or their dedication to showing you how a Tidewater Virginia accent slowly morphs into a Baltmore accent and then into almost-not-quite Philly, depending how close you are to Delaware. They also have dozens of charming small towns that appear quite definitely, yet happily haunted. In all sincerity, I would live there. Even if John Waters never invites me to his Christmas party.

Anyway, shoot days are long, 12+ hours, and generally begin with me getting my feelings hurt by hotel coffee and whatever flavor of reconstituted astronaut patty the Home2Suites feels like trying to convince me is edible. It is both exhausting and fun, if for no other reason than that the client is awesome and I could explore new weird small towns forever and never get bored, especially if someone else volunteers to drive the giant SUV over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge (that bridge was not built for such large vehicles).

It was a good time. It was successful shoot. I ate a lot of crab. I didn’t drive into the Bay.

This is, as they say, why they pay me the big bucks.

Sweater: Chicos, 20-?

Skirt: Anthropologie, 2023

Shoes: Nike, 2022

Earrings: Nordstrom Rack, 2019