Diana Vreeland and Mannequin in Balenciaga, New York, 1983. Photograph by Harry Benson.
The skirt hung primly in my closet for six months. I bought it in a mad frenzy of beauty overwhelment. Picture it: the palest dove grey, subtly hammered satin pencil skirt with a wide waistband and the most perfect double rows of languid ruffles at each hip, where the satin delicately floats and gives the illusion of curves where, alas, none exist. It was a gorgeous skirt. I had to have it and oh, what was this? The last one in the shop was in my size.
Or in what had been my size. Marriage had been good to me, darlings, in particular it had been very good to the region commonly known as “the bum.” Well-fed and well-loved, I was no longer the size I thought I was. Displaying abdominal strength hitherto reserved for Greek warriors and professional body builders, I held in my stomach (a tummy, really,) kept my thighs (they’d been spoiled, too) pressed together and, with one determined yank, zipped up the skirt. And oh lordy, was it a sight. Skin-tight satin is no one’s friend. Especially when one has traded exercise for lazy days spent in bed with a book and a bag of chocolate chips.
But I bought it, along with a genius hot-pink belt edged and buckled with black patent leather – also in my (previous) size. Maybe it’s better for you to believe that I bought these items as incentive to get back to the gym and off of my “french fries with everything” diet. Maybe you’d think “That Sariah, what a classy girl.” Alas, you are destined to know that I am a silly girl who buys skirts and belts not because they are good incentive, but because they are just too beautiful to leave alone in a store; I know they’d be so much happier in my closet with new friends.
Now it is December. Holiday parties loom. I am standing before my closet in tights, a bra, and a grimace. The eternally damning question rages: what shall I wear? Then before I can stop them my fingers dart to the dove grey satin marvel and then my legs step into it and what is this? What is THIS? It glides right on and zips right up and it fits well enough that I can do a victory dance consisting of hips shimmies, jazz hands and whoops of delight. I shimmy over to my darling exclaiming over Christmas miracles. . . and stop short.
Charlotte Gainsbourg. Credit unknown.
My husband has Good Taste. He loves crisp button downs, well-cut jeans, simple dresses and shoes, my black leather jacket, fitted t-shirts and figure-skimming sweaters. Somehow he married a woman who loves, among other things, a satin peplum skirt. My darling hates my skirt. He is not impressed with my Christmas miracle because the result is that he has to see me wearing a skirt with ruffles, and O is not a man easily taken with ruffles. Even delicate dove grey ones.
I do not have Good Taste. Whereas O’s idea of perfection is tasteful and cool (see Charlotte Gainsbourg, left) mine is manic. I either want Ann Demeulmeester’s avant-garde black or Christian Lacroix’s cacophony of color and sparkles. Neither holds much allure for my darling. While I love Audrey Hepburn as much as the next girl, given a choice I’d rather be Anna Piaggi when I grow up, with her crazy make-up and little hats, or Diana Vreeland, the queen of crimson and quips. I find Daphne Guinness and her stripey hair divine, and want to die wearing one of Anna dello Russo’s jewel-toned, poufy-sleeved mini dresses. It’s not that I dislike what O prefers, I just find it slightly, well, boring.
Anna dello Russo. Credit unknown.
Anna Piaggi, photographed by David Bailey for Another Magazine.
Adding salty insult to injury, my love is not a silent love. Whereas the last people I lived with (my parents) let me gallavant in all sorts of get-ups and never said a word, O is never without a word. He has many words, in fact. (I have to tread carefully here because he is opinionated, yes, but also very, very private. Hence the use of initials and endearments.) Our first real fight was when we’d been dating a few weeks and he told me that it was ridiculous to wear high heels to the movie. Especially as we were walking to the movie. In August. Maybe he was right, but the fact remains that while I dress based on what I feel, he’d prefer it if I dressed according to what actually looks attractive, outfits that don’t flirt with raised eyebrows and outright laughter.
I am still learning to navigate the real-life experience of being a woman who dresses for herself who also wants to be attractive for her husband. I’ve learned to limit the amount of long cardigans worn in a wintery week, to embrace shorter skirts and slightly lower heels. I’ll never buy another ankle-length cashmere dress, no matter how comfortable yet subtly seductive. But I’ve also become more comfortable and assured with my own choices while learning to appreciate simplicity. I wear more tailored shirts but in bright colours and interesting prints. I fight for the right to wear my red suede over-the-knee boots, and I love them more for it.
After the Christmas miracle, I hung the skirt back up. Lovely as it is, it isn’t right for the party. Truthfully, though I’m loath to admit it, I’m better-dressed now than I was before I met O. But let’s keep that a secret, shall we?
