Kiki Smith T from The Gap

So, I was flipping through a recent issue of the New Yorker when I saw very fetching Stephanie Seymour wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a stag’s head. This caught my attention because it made me think of the sculpture Seymour’s husband, Peter Brant, commissioned from Maurizio Cattelan, in which a wax replica of the supermodel’s naked torso rises—gracefully arched like the neck of a trophy buck—from a wooden plaque hung from the wall. I saw that the T-shirt was designed by Jeff Koons for a series of artists’ Ts celebrating The Whitney Biennial—that show everybody loves to hate and hates to love!—and sold by The Gap. I decided that I wanted it. Koons used to drive me crazy—much like the Biennial—but, after Puppy, I decided to just give in. It’s true that John Currin seems to be edging Koons out of his place in my heart, but, still, I liked the T-shirt.

A quick trip to gap.com revealed that the Koons shirt was sold out, but, by the time I had gone online, I had already kind of decided that I might like the Kiki Smith shirt better. I dig Smith. In her ad, she models her own work, and she really looks like the kind of old lady I’d like to grow into—kind of witchy, possibly crazy, and pretty hot. So, I bought her shirt instead. I got it in M and L, and I still can’t figure out which one I’m going to keep and which one is going on eBay, because this one appears to be sold out now, too. My size dilemma aside, this is an awesome acquisition.

Comfortable Shoes

Having a baby upended me, existentially. I understood that having a child would change my life. I think I even understood that it would change my life in ways that I could not fully anticipate. What I didn’t expect was that becoming a mother would make me feel instantly old—actually, I kind of expected the opposite. I thought having a little kid around would be rejuvenating. Instead, it’s left me feeling pretty ragged, body and soul.

Part of it is just being exhausted all the time. In the early days, there was the prodigious lack of sleep, and now there’s the constant work of chasing after a toddler. The various physical changes wrought by pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding have left me a bit haggard, too. I am not, frankly, feeling especially hot these days. But the really difficult transition has been adjusting to my new place in the universe—a universe which is, itself, very different now that it has Frances in it. In the circle of life, motherhood is one step closer to crone than my previous position, and it’s kind of freaking me out.

Having a baby has also ruined my knees, and trying to address that physiological issue without exacerbating my mental, emotional, and spiritual wobbliness was something of a challenge.

In the past, I tended to choose shoes that were basically unobtrusive. I was dedicated to rubber flip-flops long before they were ubiquitous (I only became aware that there might be something kind of white-trash about wearing 99-cent sandals while not walking to or fro a dorm shower circa 1995, when my friend Sarah said, “One of the things I like about you is that you think flip-flops are shoes.” Time and the vagaries of fashion have, of course, vindicated me). I wear Vans slip-ons until my big toe pokes a hole in the canvas, at which point I replace them. I’ve had the same pair of Doc Marten T-straps for, like, a decade. I tend to choose shoes that ask little of the wearer, but that offer little in the way of technologically-advanced support. While I was carrying a giant fetus in my belly, such shoes became insufficient, and my need for more space-age shoes did not end when my weighty offspring was lifted from my uterus, as her not inconsiderable—and, I should add, not unadorable—bulk was merely shifted from my insides to a sling wrapped around my middle and, later, to my right hip. (I didn’t truly become aware of just how painful carrying Frances around was until the first time I put her in the jogging stroller. Running—an activity known to be rather hard on the knees—felt delightful relative to babywearing.)

Even though I wasn’t used to wearing towering, punishing heels in my life before motherhood, committing myself to comfort over cuteness was a still difficult philosophical shift. I was, as I say, already feeling old, and making the move to comfortable shoes felt kind of like picking a burial plot or, at the very least, investing in a lot of stretchy pants. It felt like letting myself go.

Then I remembered that it’s not just the aged who buy comfortable shoes. It’s also the hippies—not just the hippies who smell bad and have no fashion sense, but also the overeducated, upper-middleclass hippies with lots of disposable income and an interest in ergonomics. Having spent several years living in Ann Arbor—haven to hippies of both varieties—I knew exactly where to start shopping.

The first shoe to catch my eye was a maryjane by Merrell. It’s sporty without being athletic, the exposed seams and ragged edges make it a little punk, and I really liked the hints of green in the felt interlining and topstitching. These are shoes I might have bought even before I was on a quest for comfort, and I’ve been quite pleased with them.

I wasn’t quite as sure about the Earth shoes. They’re so sleek—especially in the steel grey I liked best—that I couldn’t quite picture how they would look with the T-shirts, cardigans, cords, and calico A-line skirts that comprise my everyday look. I was kind of worried that these shoes would be the first step in the Eileen Fisherization of my wardrobe, and I’m just not ready for earth-tone tunics. I bought the shoes anyway, and I’m glad I did. They’re working out just fine with my existing style—or studied lack of style—and walking in them actually seems to be repairing my knees.

My final purchase—boiled-wool clogs—was both the most crunchy and the most elderly, but I don’t care. I wore these slippers around the house all winter long, and they’re awesome. My feet were warm, my arches were supported, and I barely felt a twinge when I carried Frances up and down the stairs.

I can’t say that comfortable shoes have utterly restored my spiritual and philosophical equilibrium, but I can say that I don’t feel nearly so old when my knees aren’t aching. And the fact that I managed to save my joints without beginning the inexorable slide into fashion senescence has allowed me to hope that maybe the ongoing transition into motherhood and the next stage of my life might be a little less rough than I had feared.

Unretouched: Jezebel on the Airbrushing of Faith Hill

I know that airbrushing happens. Nevertheless, I find it difficult to keep that in mind when I’m standing in the checkout line, staring at the covers of the women’s magazines and thinking, “Isn’t she, like, at least as old as me? Why doesn’t she have any crows’ feet? She doesn’t have back-flab pudging out over the top of her strapless dress, either. And look at those arms! They’re the arms of an undernourished adolescent. Jesus, I am such a fat, fucking hag.” That’s why Jezebel’s analysis of the July cover of Redbook is so awesomely valuable. I realize that this has already been all over the Internets—and even the TV—but I really consider it a public service to make sure every media-consuming woman in America sees it. So, here’s the original post, here’s a helpfully annotated version of the un-retouched photo, and here’s the Today Show segment with the adorably naïve title, “Are Magazine Covers for Real?”

Who Wore It Better: Nip Slip Edition

[PHOTOS VIA EGOTASTIC.]

Little Bo Peep Show

I love Halloween. For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed being scared—at least a little bit—and the prospect of being someone else for a night has always been appealing. The main attribute I require in a Halloween costume has always been authenticity. This means that, when I was a 4-year-old Batgirl, I needed a costume painstakingly constructed—down to the utility belt—by my amateur seamstress mom and my fanboy Uncle Bobby, rather than a mask and plastic coveralls from Kmart. Anything, for example, with a picture of Batgirl on it would have been absolutely out of the question, as Batgirl would not wear a picture of herself. Duh.

With less iconic, more broadly conceptual costumes, my sense of authenticity was more subjective. For several years—starting when I was around 12, I think—I went as some kind of vampire. Obviously, there’s no precise template for vampire, so I would just construct an outfit that seemed like something a vampire might wear: the occasional cape, a lot of black, an—during my punk-rock teens, tattered stockings and boots with pointy toes.

As I got older, the vampire got a little sexier. Indeed, I would say that it’s no coincidence that my vampire years coincided with adolescence. Like any other fancy dress occasion—by which I primarily mean school formals—Halloween was a chance to become someone hot.

Given that Halloween is a liminal time, a celebration of topsy-turvy, and a last hurrah before the cold, dark winter sets in, going for hotness seems like a reasonable approach to the holiday. Of course, as someone who spends a lot of time around the children—I live in a university town and I am, myself, a student—I can report that the contemporary American young woman doesn’t wait for a special occasion to go for hotness: I see a lot of g-strings floating above lowrider jeans on every walk to and from Spanish class. I would argue that it’s the pornification of everyday life that has made the typical sorority girl’s Halloween costume indistinguishable from the get-ups worn by shticky strippers, or perhaps whores to whom one must pay a little bit extra for the role-playing.

I don’t have a coherent position on sexiness and feminism, and, as I’ve already stated, my position on sexiness and Halloween is pretty much, “Why not?” Thus, to the extent that I’m disturbed by costumes like “Temperature Rising Nurse” and “Sexy Nun”, it’s because I know that if I went as, say, “Evil Pixie,” I’d actually be going as “Woman Who Is About 15 Years Too Old and 30 Pounds Too Fat For Her Costume”—and “Evil Pixie” is relatively demure.

Actually, even if I were sufficiently delusional, I still couldn’t go as “Evil Pixie,” because the largest size in which this costume is available is 6-8. It is, however, available in teen sizes, which brings us to what I actually do find disturbing in the trend toward racier costumes: children dressed up to be sexy and adults dressed as sexualized children.

This ThursdayStyles article didn’t have a whole lot in the way of ground-breaking commentary, but it did offer the unsettling idea of college students dressed up as “va-voom Girl Scouts” and “girls’ costumes… designed in ways that create the semblance of a bust where there is none.” It was the latter image that sent me on a Froogle search for “bratz costume”, and, sure enough, I discovered that one can, in fact, dress one’s 8-year-old in a ersatz latex corset this Halloween.

The online shop where I found the Bratz get-up also sells something called “Lipstick Diva.” This hot little number not only induces unease, but also conceptual vertigo, as the plaid miniskirt seems to be schoolgirl, by way of Trash & Vaudeville, sold back to schoolgirls. In fact, all the girls’ costumes on this page are kind of gross. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t remember quite so many bare midriffs at Halloween when I was a kid.

I don’t really know what to say about all this, except that the peak of female sexiness—as judged from the outside, not the inside—seems to be a brief period between the ages of 12 and 19, and that, when the time comes, I think I will try to convince my own daughter that it would be good contrarian fun—rebellious, even punk—to use Halloween as an opportunity to celebrate her inner prude.

[THANKS TO GRIFFIN FOR THE NYTIMES LINK.]

Best, Worst

For more Oscar fashion fun, go to Go Fug Yourself.

Generally speaking, I like Marc Jacobs, but I simply cannot stand the stupid giant toboggan hats.

Fantasy Fashion League: Season Opener

As the jewel-encrusted stilettos and metallic strappy sandals hit the red carpet at the Emmys, the Fantasy Fashion League kicked off its inaugural season, and my team came out fighting. Shocking Pink—named in honor of Elsa Schiaparelli—is currently in third place on my league, and well within striking distance of the top slot.

Dior was Shocking Pink’s MVP, scoring significant points during the ceremony, and the design house promises to be a steady presence in the fashion press as it celebrates its 100th anniversary.

However, Sunday night, Shocking Pink was slightly stymied by a total lack of TV celebrities on the roster. Orange Is My New Pink, currently ranked first in my league, boasts queen of all media and very stylish young woman Jessica Simpson—she was one of my top draft picks, but I didn’t get her—and #2 team Shiny Pink Mary Janes has both Eva Longoria and Teri Hatcher. Nevertheless, now that this television-dominated event is behind us, I expect my celebrity players—Scarlett Johannson, Cate Blanchett, and Kate Hudson—to pick up some serious momentum.

Martha Stewart’s Prison Poncho Pattern

It breaks my heart when people come to my site and don’t find what they’re looking for (except when they’re looking for something nasty, in which case it doesn’t). Because I have blogged about handmade ponchos and Martha Stewart, hundreds of visitors seeking a pattern for the inmate-crocheted wrap Ms. Stewart wore on her release from prison have arrived here only to be disappointed.

Luckily, I’m not the only person who has noticed the flood of crafty ladies desperate for this pattern. The kindly folks at Lion Brand Yarn are offering a facsimile pattern for free on their site. It’s, as they say, a good thing—but I’d still rather have Martha’s Birkin bag.

“Bosoms Have Gotten So Big”

On a recent trip to New York, I had two goals: I wanted to see the Aztec show at the Guggenheim, and I wanted to buy some bras at the Town Shop.

I first learned of the Town Shop on NPR, on an installment of Radio Diaries. “We know your size”: this is the claim made by the Town Shop, and this is the reason I’ve dreamed of visiting it. I’ve been buying bras in 36-D for almost twenty years, but I’ve long suspected that this is not my actual size. Indeed, finding bras that seem to fit is such a nightmare that my own sister refuses to go bra shopping with me, and my mom agrees to it only under duress.

My host in New York—Griffin—is a man, and I was fairly confident that he would not be interested in a trip to the Town Shop, so I asked his girlfriend to go with me. As it turns out, Rebecca bought her first bra at the Town Shop, and she was quite willing to make a return visit.

I had imagined that the Town Shop would be a small, dark space, and that I would be fitted by a tiny Jewish woman with a tape measure. I was wrong on both counts. The Town Shop is fairly spacious for a Manhattan boutique, and it’s bright and open. I was helped by a tall, slender, gorgeous black woman with a cockney accent, and she didn’t need a tape measure to size up my bust. She cast a quick, cool, professional eye on my bosom, and started bringing me brassieres to try on.

34-DDD: This, apparently, is my true size, and it’s not a size I am likely to encounter anywhere outside the Town Shop. Rebecca also discovered that she has been wearing the wrong size, and we both learned a little something about the proper way to apply a push-up bra.

It’s a bit too early to say that my visit to the Town Shop has changed my life, but I can say that I am thoroughly enjoying the bras that I bought there. Never has my bosom been so comfortably encased.

Labiaplasty in SundayStyles

One of the fundamental tenets of the women’s health movement was that everyone should be familiar with her body. This might seem obvious, but, before the ‘60s and ‘70s, women were generally taught that their bodies were, at best, mysterious, and, at worst, shameful. Medicine certainly treated them as if they were inferior versions of male bodies. To counter this view—and to save lives—pioneers in the women’s health movement encouraged their peers to really get to know and appreciate their bodies.

This cultural moment was concurrent with the rise of sex-positive feminism and the birth of feminist porn. It’s not overstating the case too terribly to say that, as a result of these interrelated trends, women discovered the vulva. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, there was a small but significant explosion of vulvic art—from Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party to the erotic nature photography of Femalia to Tee Corinne’s Cunt Coloring Book. The message of all this imagery was that women’s bodies are beautiful, and that they are beautiful because they are unique.

Goodness, how things have changed. While we can still buy vulvic jewelry and vagina hand puppets, it seems we can also purchase plastic surgery to make our external genitalia symmetrical or to reduce “oversized” labia. I know I shouldn’t be surprised—we’re living in the perfect storm of commodification, consumerism, and rampant body dysmorphic disorder—but, in fact, I was. Beyond pointing out that the labia contain sensitive nerve endings vital to sexual satisfaction, I hardly know what to say. Mostly, I just feel sad. Maybe spending some time with my crayons and a coloring book will make me feel a little bit better…

Make Your Own Poncho, Cont’d.

Not long ago, I posted an entry that contained a variety of poncho patterns. Some of them were for the seasoned knitter; some of them were quite simple. Last night, however, I saw the easiest poncho ever. It was, I am fairly certain, a thrift-store baby blanket with a hole cut in the middle. I always admire a DIY project that combines economy, simplicity, and design success, and this thing had it all: it was a pretty pink; it was a lovely, soft knit; and it was the perfect size for a gal of slim-to-average build. So, if you want a poncho right now, and if you think you will want to be wearing it for approximately this fashion moment, this is an ideal solution.

Make Your Own Poncho, Please

It’s only been autumn for a couple of days now, but there’s one fall fashion trend that I’m already sick of: the poncho. I have nothing against the garment itself; I’m just tired of seeing the giant doily that seems to be its most popular iteration.

I’m aware that not everyone who wants a poncho can afford the gorgeously crafted version, spun from the finest cashmere. I know that, when one can’t have Prada, sometimes Zara will do—indeed, sometimes even H&M will do—and I suppose that if one has no plans to wear a trendy item beyond the season at hand, there’s little point in spending a lot on that item. It’s just that a crappy poncho looks so very, well, crappy.

In a perfect world, all clothes would be well-constructed, perfectly fitted, and made from beautiful fabric. Most of the time, we have to settle for one or two of these attributes. The poncho, though, is basically nothing but a piece of fabric, so, when it’s made from bad fabric—acrylic yarn, for example—it’s just bad. And because the poncho is so simple, it’s really, really easy to make one that doesn’t look like shit. If you have basic knitting skills, or can sew a straight seam, you can have a lovely poncho you’ll be delighted to wear this fall and beyond.

The poncho is pretty much the easiest knitting project there is. It’s really not much more complex than a scarf—just bigger—and if you knit in the round, it’s actually easier. There’s an absurdly simple poncho pattern in The Knit Stitch, a great book for beginners. I’m working on this poncho right now myself. Basically, it’s just a big tube. I’m using a wonderful hand-painted yarn, variegated shades of sage and turquoise and soft brown in a merino blend.

For the more advanced knitters, there are snazzy poncho patterns in Debbie Stoller’s awesome Stitch ’N Bitch and Big Just Got Bigger by Rowan—the latter is an especially good resource because it contains projects designed especially for big, fat yarns, so they knit up fast. The web is also a great source for poncho patterns. A Google search immediately turned up this saucy little number at Yarn Harlot. The redoubtable Knitty.com offers a couple of new poncho patterns, too.

The world is full of scrumptious yarn, yarn spun from luscious fibers dyed elegant and exciting colors. If you’re not blessed with a great local store, there are virtual shops aplenty. I’m fond of Yarn Market.

But you don’t have to knit to have a poncho. If you can cut out a couple of rectangles and stitch them together, you can have a poncho in minutes. As with the knitted poncho, the key is fine materials. Even the most rudimentary fabric store should have some nice drapey woollens and elegant knits, and, since a poncho should only require a couple of yards of fabric, you can splurge a little. If you really don’t find anything you like at your local Jo-Ann, look online at stores like Fashion Fabrics Club. If you feel like you could use a little guidance, there are poncho patterns for sewers, too. This McCall’s pattern has ponchos and capelets attainable by even the least experienced seamstress.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

I’ve worn these shoes—by Betsey Johnson for Candie’s—exactly once, but, on that occasion, they totally got the job done.

It was at the book launch party for a friend of mine. The party took place at the office space of another friend, a sweet loft in Soho. The latter friend had just launched an internet business; he and his partners were hoping to sell short films online. Ah, remember the early-00s? Those were innocent times.

Anyway, I was there early, helping to get everything set up. At one point, a skinny blonde girl—I think she was the girlfriend of one of my friend’s business partners—arrived. We were introduced, but she barely looked at me, and I am quite certain that my name went in one ear and out the other.

Later, after all the crudités had been arranged, I switched out of my comfy sneakers and into these heels. Then, the party commenced. I was chatting with some guy—I can’t remember who—when the skinny blonde girl approached. She wanted to talk to this guy, too, and she was quite prepared to ignore me again when she happened to notice my footwear. “Nice shoes,” she said, and then she looked at me—actually looked at me—with new-found respect.

So, yeah, she was kind of a bitch, but at least she recognizes really good shoes when she sees them.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

So, a fan of the Wednesday Morning Shoe Report—Cameron Kippen, a podologist and shoe historian living in Perth, Western Australia—dropped me a line to let me know about his own work. “My area of research,” he wrote, “is the psycho-social and psycho-sexual aspects of shoe design and STDs in the Middle Ages.” Of course I was intrigued. Having spent some time on Kippen’s website, I’m still not sure what the venereal disease angle is, but his site certainly has a lot of information about feet and the history of shoes. There is, as you might guess from Kippen’s introduction, a focus on the sexy throughout the site.

For example, Greek prostitutes were apparently the first women to realize that elevated shoes give a gal a shimmy when she walks, but men have also exploited the suggestive possibilities of footwear. For instance, there was the poulaine:

By the High Middle Ages… [m]en began to wear long toed shoes called pigaches or poulaines. The style became an instant success and the fashion lasted over three hundred years before it was eventually legislated against. Soon extensions became longer and longer until they were so long they made walking almost impossible. Young bucks started to stuff wool and moss in the extensions to keep them erect. So blatantly phallic and long, soon the style included attachments to the knee with a chain to prevent tripping. A popular vulgarity was to paint the extensions flesh coloured, allowing them to flap with lifelike mobility.

Small bells were often attached to the end of the poulaine to indicate the wearer was a willing partner in sexual frolic… Sometimes worn by curling the toes, the poulaine was the forerunner to the codpiece… Youths were chastised for standing on the street corners waggling their toe suggestively as the young ladies walked by…

The Church called the poulaine Satan’s Claw and blamed it for the Black Death of 1347. Ultimately, the size of a man’s shoe was mandated by sumptuary laws. “Between 1327 and 1377, during the reign of Edward III (1312-1377), pointed toes were prohibited to all who did not have an income of at least forty pounds a year… [P]ikes could not be more than six inches long for a plain commoner, twelve inches for a landowner (bourgeois), Knights, one and a half feet, twenty-four inches for a baron, and princes could wear them as long as they liked.” Later, under the reign of Queen Mary, sumptuary laws limited the breadth of a person’s shoes, suggesting—to me, anyway—that some cobbler somewhere had figured out that girth is actually more important than length.

The true high-heel—as opposed to the platform shoe—was, according to Kippen, pioneered by Catherine de Medici, who wore them to her royal wedding in 1533. This great moment in fashion launches Kippen into a disquisition on the whole history of the high-heel right up to the present—including the introduction of toe cleavage—and from there he heads straight into the Victorian fantasy that women didn’t actually have legs to full-on foot fetish.

This website also offers articles on a variety of other shoe-related topics, including essays on foot superstitions and biblical feet.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

Scotland is the rainiest country in the world, or at least the rainiest country in which I have honeymooned. It was cloudy and cold and wet pretty much every day my husband and I were there. This would not have been a problem, really—Scotland looks good when it's gray, and my raincoat is adorable—but my vintage Pumas sprung a leak on our first day in Edinburgh. As my enjoyment of the Festival Fringe was somewhat diminished by a sopping left foot, our first stop on day two in Edinburgh was the venerable department store Jenners, where I purchased these lovely purple wellies. I wore these boots all over Scotland, and I was very glad to have them.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

I’ve wearing the same pair of flip-flops for days, as all my other shoes are packed up in boxes that I have not been able to locate among the sea of cardboard now overflowing the basement of my new home. So, this Wednesday morning, I turn from my own collection to look at an artifact from shoe history, the chopine.

Chopines were platform shoes of the 16th and 17th centuries. They made their first appearance in Venice, and their popularity spread throughout much of Renaissance Europe. Some historians suggest that the fashion was inspired by Venetian trade with Asia. In an essay, Elizabeth Bernhardt compares the chopine to slippers worn by Chinese women with bound feet. There are some similarities between the two types of footwear: both styles exaggerated differences between the male and female gait, and, in their most extreme forms, both styles actually immobilized the wearer.

Chopines were worn by both noblewomen and prostitutes, and there is some scholarly disagreement about how chopines signified. The text describing a pair of chopines held by the Costume Institute at the Met notes that some historians have argued that the very highest chopines “were worn by courtesans to establish a highly visible public profile,” while some 17th-century sources suggest that a tall shoe indicated the high social status of its wearer.

As with any fashion, chopines had their detractors. In the 1600s section of Platform Diva, a site devoted to the history of the platform shoe, one learns that high heels were, like cosmetics and false teeth, equated with witchcraft by an act of Parliament in 1670. Any woman who lured a good British man into marriage with such foul trickery could find that marriage nullified.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

As soon as I found the dress I would wear to my nuptial cocktail party, I knew that I wanted sandals with flowers on them. After much searching, I discovered the shoes of my dreams on eBay. They’re Prada, and they’re spectacular. I believe it’s obvious from this photo that I was very excited about them. The details of the that evening are a little fuzzy, but I imagine I showed them to a number of people just as I am showing them to my pal Griffin here.

I realize that this photo doesn’t tell you a whole lot about the shoes, though, so please allow me to describe them: They have a kitten heel, and they’re decorated with wonderfully realistic leather flowers, leaves, and blades of grass. They’re sweet and slightly wild, and I felt like a fertility goddess wearing them.

The Wedding Planner: Unmentionables Update

In a recent post, I described the difficulty I've had finding a bra or bra-like device to wear under my wedding-reception evening gown. By the end of my little tale of foundation-garment woe, I was preparing myself for the alarming possibility of going braless. Not only has this topic generated some helpful suggestions and supportive (pun not intended, but I'm leaving it anyway) comments from friends, but it also earned me a place in the Breast Freedom Forum.

Given that this anecdote has provoked so much interest, I believe that a follow-up is in order.

I will not, as it turns out, be a braless bride at my wedding reception. I was quite nervous about this anyway, and when I mentioned the idea to the seamstress who's altering my dress, she looked horrified. It's not that she's prudish—all indications are that she is a swinging, sophisticated lady—it's just that my bosom is, in truth, bounteous. The seamstress was concerned that I could not possibly be comfortable, physically or socially, sans brassiere. She was determined to help me find a solution.

My dress is leaf green, and it happened that the bra I had worn to the fitting was a complementary chartreuse. The seamstress made the radical suggestion of sewing the bra into the dress. This would require raising the back of this backless gown a bit to hide the horizontal strap, but, at this point, I was willing to forego a little bit of glamour in back for the secure support I so desired in front. Having relinquished the bra I had been wearing so that it could be added to my dress, I had nothing but a t-shirt containing my breasts for the journey from the seamstress's house to my own; given how naked I felt during that brief, private drive, I believe I made the right choice.

In closing, I feel I must clear up some confusion on a related point: I was not braless on my wedding day, either. I was, in fact, wearing a very nice little strapless number by Wacoal.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

My childhood was filled with the distinctive clip-clop of the Dr. Scholl's Exercise Sandal, my mom's favorite shoe. As soon as the snow thawed in the spring and until her toes turned blue in late autumn, my mom clomped around in Dr. Scholl's. When they stopped making them in the mid-80s, my mom scoured northeastern Ohio for every size-7 pair she could find. There was a yellow wall of Dr. Scholl's boxes in the basement for years. Luckily, Dr. Scholl's began producing them again just as my mom's collection had dwindled to a few pairs. She's thrilled with the Exercise Sandal renaissance, which means she can now buy them in lovely colors and pretty prints.

I did not care for these shoes when I was a kid. I thought they were ugly and, more importantly, I was always a little anxious about the possibility of mom accidentally crushing my bare feet with those heavy wooden soles. My low opinion went unrevised until I happened upon the Paul Frank Julius Dr. Scholl's. I have a fondness for monkeys, and, as it turns out, the Exercise Sandal is as comfortable as my mom has always said. When it came time to find a Mother's Day gift for the old girl last year, I didn't have to think very hard before I got another pair for her.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

I luved these shoes from the first moment I saw them. I didn't have the cash to buy them at the time, and I was overwhelmed with the anxiety of delayed consumer gratification—not just the angst of not having what I want as soon as I want it, but that pain coupled with the intense fear that the object of my desire might no longer be available when the necessary funds materialize.

While I waited for some disposable income, I was occasionally afflicted by moments of doubt. What if these shoes were just a goofy impulse? Were they much too cute for a woman over 30? What if I bought them, only to wear them once and then condemn them forever to the back of the closet? What if I wasted $35 that could have been spent on makeup, art supplies, or booze?

Even as I vacillated, I monitored the availability of these limited edition shoes. I panicked a little when they were backordered at Delia's, and breathed a sigh of relief when they were still available on the Van's website. One glorious paycheck Friday, feeling fiscally flush and free-wheelin', I placed my order.

While I have made many ill-advised, poorly considered purchases in my day—I am easily beguiled by glitter and other shiny surfaces—I'm totally glad I trusted my gut in this instance. I wear these sneakers all the time. They're perfect: the pink death's heads are menacing, but adorable—they appeal to my inner punk-rock teen, but with a wink. And I had forgotten than Van's are actually as comfortable as they look. Truly, I heart these shoes.

The Wedding Planner: Unmentionables

I bought a backless dress for my wedding reception. I don't know what in the hell I was thinking. I was, obviously, not thinking at all. Such is the splendor of this gown that I was rendered incapable of rational thought.

Had I been in my right mind, I would have realized that backless means braless, and I have not been publicly braless since I was twelve. Even my bathing suits have underwires. Without a bra, I might as well be naked.

One would think that my head would have cleared sufficiently to realize my error when I actually tried the dress on (it's from Bluefly, so I didn't have the chance before I bought it), but no. I was delighted with the way it fit in every way except through the bodice and, once again drunk on beauty, I thought to myself, "I just have to find the right bra." I said exactly the same thing to my mom and my sister when I tried on the dress for them, and they nodded—whether in agreement or the desire to placate me, I know not.

After having tried on mountains of lingerie—corsets, long-line brassieres, foam cups backed with adhesive—I can safely say that there is no right bra for this dress. I realized that it was time to give up hope when I found myself wondering how I might find a local beauty pageant consultant who would no how to tape breasts. So, having officially ended my search for the right bra, I have two choices: I can either find a new dress, or I can attend my wedding reception braless.

I'm really not sure which option is more harrowing.

While I usually have a good relationship with my breasts, this experience has pumped new life into my worst body-image fears. My aesthetic self-esteem, fragile at the best of times, withers away completely after sustained exposure to the fluorescent glare of department-store dressing rooms, and it would take a much stronger woman than me to feel fabulous while spilling out of heavily-boned foundation garments. Thus, the confidence I would require to be a braless bride was quite thoroughly ground out of me as I tried on bra after ill-fitting bra.

As for finding a new dress, I don't have the time, the money, or the emotional energy to begin a new search. And, I do truly love the dress I already have.

I really don't know what I'm going to do. I'm thinking that, for a few days at least, I'm going to ignore the problem. Ultimately, I'll probably resign myself to bralessness, and hope to achieve the moxie required to pull it off between now and the reception. Then, as I prepare for the nuptial cocktail party, I will probably add a festive, fortifying new step to my toilette. To my knowledge, gin has never been regarded as a beauty product, but I'm pretty sure I'll be throwing a flask into my makeup bag.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

This is how the web is supposed to work: you Google "shoe history" and find something as rich, informative, and gorgeous as Solemates: The Century in Shoes. A series of essays—one for each decade of the 20th century—describe the footwear of the period and put shoes in a larger cultural context. There are little movies from each era, advertisements, and many lovely photos of sandals, pumps, and boots.

[YELLOW SILK EVENING SLIPPER WITH FLORAL ACCENTS COURTESY OF SOLEMATES: THE CENTURY IN SHOES.]

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

Sarah Hand used to make fun of my fondess for flip-flops. "You wear them like they're shoes," she once remarked. Flip-flops have always been my summer footwear of choice, even when the rest of the population considered them appropriate only for the shower at the gym or for walking from the car to the beach. Finally, though, the rest of the world has caught up with me. There's never been a more exciting array of flip-flop options than there is right now.

These shoes were all the rage last summer. This pair cost me a pretty penny at eBay when they were completely sold out at Sigerson Morrison, but, from the first time I saw them in Lucky, I knew I had to have them. This summer, knockoffs abound—I've seen similar shoes for $10—but I'm still glad I bought mine when I did. It's not that easy to be au courant when you live in the midwest, but, for several glorious months, I was exceedingly fashion-forward, footwise.

The Wedding Planner: Jennifer Lopez

Several months ago, back when Jennifer was still Bennifer, Us Weekly ran a feature speculating on what her next wedding dress would look like. They included photos from her first two weddings, which I thought was kind of cold, but I guess they did provide some insight into her taste in nuptial attire. Judging from the limited photo evidence and related information so far available, I think I approve of her choice.

We know that the gown is Vera Wang. I'm not wearing a wedding dress myself, but, as a consumer of bridal magazines, I am well-acquainted with Ms. Wang's recent work. Her standard collection remains pretty straightforward—nice, but not extraordinary. Her luxe collection, however, is wonderfully kooky—very goth, lots of fur tippets ostrich feather headbands and black trim. I hope J. Lo took advantage of the designer's new daring. It does look like the dress showcases her magnificent ass, which is nice.

[PHOTO BORROWED, SANS PERMISSION, FROM ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT'S LOPEZ-ANTHONY WEDDING ALBUM.]

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

I've spent a lot of time looking for shoes to wear when I get married. My search narrowed once I decided that I wanted my shoes to be my something blue, but, still, there were a lot of choices. I thought long and hard about some Marc Jacobs peep-toes before I decided that they were just too fancy for the rather casual summer suit I'll be wearing to the courthouse. Also, they cost approximately a trillion dollars—not a deal-breaker, exactly, but something to consider.

Last Friday, I was reviewing my research when I rediscovered a sassy but demure, stylish but free-wheeling pair of kitten-heel thongs. I had completely forgotten about them, but, upon further consideration, they seemed like just the shoes I was looking for. Also, they cost about 1/10 of the Marc Jacobs shoes I'd had my eye on. (Having recently spent much of my fiancé's money on a variety of nuptial items, I liked the idea of exhibiting my frugal side). I ordered them from Zappos (They gave me expedited shipping for free, thus making a good deal even better).

They arrived yesterday. They're very cute shoes, and I'm quite pleased with them.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

These are the shoes I desperately wanted when I was in sixth grade. Alas, my mom could not be persuaded to buy sneakers that cost $30, so I never got them. (I was able to talk her into a pair of Jordache, but she made me get a pair that was, like, 3 sizes too big. Imagine my chagrin when I sauntered into the classroom on the first day of school, feeling fine in my brand new designer jeans, only to see Andrea De'Something-or-other wearing exactly the same pair, but hers were all faded and super-tight).

I moved on, of course, as did my taste in footwear, but, when I saw these shoes on the shelf in an Anchorage thrift store, it was like a benevolent god had taken notice of me and intervened in my life. Seriously.

They were in practically new condition when I bought them, but I've had them for awhile and they're starting to fall apart. The waffled treads—hard to believe these were the height of sneaker technology in the early 80s—have worn down and the rubber is all petrified, so these are no longer athletic shoes in any real sense. They remain, nevertheless, the favorite shoes of my inner twelve-year-old.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

I got these shoes during a pre-nuptial shopping excursion with my mom and my sister. They don't go with any of my marital outfits, but they were too awesome to pass up. I did wear them at my bridal shower last weekend, so I guess they've earned their place in my trousseau.

I like shoes that totally complete an outfit, and this pair falls into that category: jeans and a t-shirt become a snappy, put-together ensemble when worn with these sandals. They're also surprisingly comfortable—the footbed is nicely padded, a rare thing in a stylish shoe. I've become a big fan of Kenneth Cole over the past few years, and I feel that these shoes exemplify everything that's great about his designs. They're grown-up and office-ready, but they're also playful and rather hip.

Wednesday Morning Shoe Report

I got these shoes on eBay, so I had no idea how very uncomfortable they were before I bought them. I know they don't look uncomfortable, but they really, really are. It's been a long time since I've worn flats, so perhaps I'd just forgotten the unpleasantness of wearing them. Or maybe it's just this particular pair. In either case, it's almost freaky how not comfortable these shoes are; it's like they were made with some kind of super, top-secret discomfort technology. The last time I wore these shoes to work, I was limping by 5 o'clock, and it's not like I'm a waitress or something: I'm pretty much on my ass all day, every day.

On the other hand, these shoes are really, really cute.

Something New

So, this is the dress I'm getting married in. It's pink and white seersucker, strapless, and fitted. It's sexy, in a demure kind of way. I'll also be wearing a matching jacket. I haven't found the right shoes yet, but I'm thinking they might be my something blue.

I was planning to wear a white suit. I'm getting married at city hall, so I didn't want a full-on wedding dress. I wanted something sleek and grown-up and sensible, but special. This pink ensemble, however, won my heart.

My mom and dad bought the suit for me. I found it at Beachwood Place—the swankiest shopping center in the greater Cleveland area. My mom and my sister where there with me. This wasn't just a tri to the mall; it was hardcore female bonding.

I was a bit nervous about this excursion. My little sister and I have a pretty healthy shopping relationship, but Rachel is a slightly more volatile individual than I am. Being conflict-averse, I tend to defer to her moods. I have, in fact, always deferred to her moods: she was a loud baby, and I liked quiet. On this outing, however, I was determined to find a suit, even if it meant weathering my sister's fussiness.

Trying on clothes with my mom has always been a little bit exasperating. She refuses to take my word for it when something looks like shit on me. She stands in the dressing-room corridor, cajoling, "Come on. Let me see." When I was a kid, my excitement about back-to-school shopping was mitigated by the knowledge that I'd be forced to model countless pairs of awkward jeans and ill-fitting shirts before I'd be properly outfitted for the academic year ahead. The Christmas semi-formal and the Valentine's dance offered even more potential for tears and angry outbursts.

This trip to the mall was not altogether unlike searching for a Homecoming dress, as a matter of fact, in that it was a girly group effort. My mom and Rachel kept an eye out for themselves while were shopping—we all went home with new shoes—but they were mostly there for me, to provide moral support and aesthetic judgment (and, in the case of my mom, a credit card).

White suits are hot this season, and there were a lot to try on. We all got a bit weary. In the Ann Taylor dressing room, I had to ask for a few moments of silence. My mom was insisting that I try on the hot pink skirt even though I had already vetoed the hot pink jacket, and my sister was losing faith in the project. "Maybe you don't really want a white suit," she said. I believed that she was trying to help, but I also knew that she was suffering from mall fatigue, and that she wanted to get home in time to take a shower and get dolled-up before going back out to see a Ramones tribute band at the Lime Spider.

We got through this tough moment, though, and, ultimately, I was glad to have my sister there. She was the one who finally figured out why I wasn't liking any of the suits I tried on. Late in the day, as I stared unhappily in the mirror and saw my mom and Rachel staring at me, too, I said, "This suit fits just fine, but I don't like it. I don't know what the problem is." After waiting a careful, thoughtful moment—which is rare for my spectacularly outspoken sister—Rachel said, "You look like the groom at a lesbian wedding."

She was totally right.

If not for my sister's unstoppable candor, keen fashion insight, and knowledge of alternative mating rituals, I might still be searching fruitlessly for the perfect white suit. If not for my sister's help, I might never have seen the look on my mom's face when—uncoerced and excited—I opened the dressing room door to show her the pink seersucker dress.

Interview: Plum Sykes

I don't care what Choire Sicha says: I liked Bergdorf Blondes. I found its goofy glamour fairly irresistible, much as I found Plum Sykes to be disarmingly nice when I called her to chat about her book.

A friend of mine compared her Bergdorf Blondes experience to eating a big bag of candy from the bulk-foods store: at first, it's yummy, but then you keep eating it until it makes you feel kind of sick, and even though you really want to stop eating it, you just can't help sticking your hand back in the bag. My friend meant this as a criticism. I find it to be an apt description of this novel's particular charms.

There is nothing aspirational about Bergdorf Blondes. Its author has no illusions that her novel is anything more than a silly romantic comedy dressed up in a Michael Kors frock, and its heroine has absolutely no interest in serious introspection or personal growth. Given that most chick lit is a parable of self-improvement masquerading as entertainment, I find Sykes's lack of pretension or fake gravitas refreshing.

em>Bergdorf Blondes was, in many ways, what I hoped The Devil Wears Prada would be. Comparisons of the two books are more or less inevitable—both are accounts of the fashionable life by Vogue staffers, and the latter was re-issued in paperback just as the former was published—but the two novels are really quite different. Lauren Weisberger's fictional doppelgänger Andrea Sachs is a typical chick-lit heroine. As the assistant to the editor at Runway magazine (Weisberger is, of course, the onetime assistant to Anna Wintour), she's clinging to the edges of glamour. Moi, the otherwise unnamed narrator of Bergdorf Blondes, is, like her creator, the real deal: she's a style reporter whose best friend is a grotesquely wealthy department-store heiress. Andrea has dreams of writing for the New Yorker, and her story is that of a young woman coming into her own. Moi, on the other hand, has dreams of Chloé jeans, and her story is that of a young woman who goes in search of a husband because all her engaged friends have really incredible skin.

On the occasions when I read chick lit, I usually find that it's like flipping through women's magazines with their conflicted, unsettling mix of earnest self-help advice, faddish diet tips, girl-power boosterism, and airbrushed beauty. Bergdorf Blondes, on the other hand, is like the narrative offspring of Net-a-Porter and Page Six, a charming diversion blessedly free of mass-market wisdom and advertorial insight.

Today Rocks!

It's official: Spring has finally come to Ann Arbor. There have been a few days already that offered tantalizing, restorative whispers of Spring, but today is the real deal. It's the first day that I don't just feel warm on the surface. I feel the sun all the way through. It's awesome.

Also, I am wearing my new favorite shoes: they're pink, but they also have skulls on them, which I luv.

These shoes looked spectacular under the black lights at the Blind Pig last night, where Davy and Peter Rothbart launched their forthcoming Slapdance Across America Tour. They're going to be visiting more than a hundred cities this summer, and if one of those cities is yours, I whole-heartedly recommend you see them. Davy reads funny, sad, shocking, and altogether revelatory submissions to FOUND Magazine. Peter performs "The Booty Don't Stop," the greatest love song of all time. If you can't make one of their performances, or if you want a preview, you may wish to buy a copy of the brand new FOUND book, a delightful volume which will, I predict, soon be joining Our Dumb Century on coffee tables and toilet tanks across the nation.

Speaking our books, today I found used copies of In Pursuit of Flavor by Edna Lewis and Peg Bracken's Appendix to the I Hate to Cook Cook Book (first edition!), still more evidence that today rocks!

I am returning to the out of doors now, because outside is totally where it's at today.

Do I Care About Anything But the Clothes?

No, I do not.

If you want recap, check out Whatevs (Dot Org).

If you want fashion, here it is, and it's soooo boring. I can't even muster the enthusiasm to have a favorite dress.

Worst gown? Obviously, no contest. I would like to thank Uma Thurman, though, for what seems to have been a good-faith catastrophe, which is always much more interesting than the egregiously oddball. I also would add that Sandra Bullock's marshmallowy Oscar de la Renta frock was pretty weird, too.

I always admire actresses who wear vintage.

In closing, while watching the "What Were They Thinking?" slideshow on Yahoo!'s Oscar page, I was reminded that, no matter how much she might beg, Stella McCartney is never, ever going to dress me.

Hot Topic

So, I was in class, trying to talk about human products—marrow, fat, powdered brain—used in medieval pharmacology, when I noticed that two of my students were looking at me and giggling. "What's so funny?" I asked.

At first, of course, they tried to demur with, "Nothing," but I persisted and finally one of them said, "Your wristband." I should point out at this time that my wristband was black leather, with spikes on it. It is an integral component in my "punk-preppy" look, which, in this case, consisted of a Ralph Lauren golf shirt, a v-neck Shetland sweater, and the aforementioned hardware.

Anyway, I asked what was so comical about my choice of accessory. Rather than answer my question, the student countered with one of his own: "Did you get it at Hot Topic?" A room full of teens burst into laughter.

Lacking the presence of mind to come up with a cool and cutting reply, I simply squealed "No!" and felt my face flush with mortification, and that was that. I looked at my lesson plan, took a deep breath, and got back to teaching.

Kids can be so cruel.

The World Beard and Moustache Championships

My dad has a moustache. He's always had a moustache. It's not huge, it's not elaborate—there's no waxing or combing involved in its maintenance—but it's undeniably there. He sees nothing strange about this. Most of his friends have moustaches, too. In fact, now that I think about it, among my dad's moustachioed friends are a cop and at least one construction worker, and my dad is, himself, a retired fireman. I am, nevertheless, quite certain it has never occurred to them that—but for the absence of a cowboy, an Indian, and a leather daddy—they could be a sort of lower-middle class, Ohio version of the Village People.

I have always accepted my dad's moustache for what it is, and, like everyone who knows him, I was shocked and disturbed the one and only time he shaved it off. It wasn't just that the new look was unfamiliar; it was that, as it turns out, my dad's upper lip is perfectly smooth, and, clean-shaven, he looked exactly like the Grinch—so exactly like the Grinch that strangers would approach him and say, "Dude, you look just like the Grinch!" When asked why he shaved off his moustache, my dad replied that he just wanted to see what would happen (that's fairly typical of my dad, who frequently takes things—complicated, mechanical things—apart to see if he can put them back together). Anyway, he got to work on a new moustache immediately, and it was actually less unnerving to have a dad with a straggly, teen-style upper lip than it had been to call a cartoon-character-come-to-life "father".

A few years ago, pop added a goatee to the facial hair configuration. This new look is absolutely ungay, but I don't imagine that's why my dad made the change (he probably just wanted to see what would happen) for the same reason I don't imagine that my dad and his drinking buddies have ever looked at themselves and seen the Village People: In Ohio, the signifiers of manliness still signify manliness, not gayness. Ohio is not an ironic place.

All of which brings me to the World Beard and Moustache Championships, which I got to by way of Field Mahoney's "Talk of the Town" piece in The New Yorker of January 26. Contests are, with few exceptions, fairly straightforward phenomena, but the World Beard and Moustache Championships seem spectacularly innocent of irony. Many of the contestants are in full costume—cowpoke, musketeer, Victorian dandy—and, apparently, contenders have to answer such questions as, "If you're beard were an animal, what animal would it be?"—but there is nothing cute or clever about these proceedings. You know the guys in full-on Kaiser-Wilhelm drag are not kidding around.

While my dad has no particular love of Germans in pointy helmets, he does like to grow things, and he enjoys a project. I gave him a bonsai tree for his birthday, but I'm thinking of introducing him to the concept of competitive facial hair—I mean, seriously: there are sponsorship opportunities. My dad's got a pretty good natural going, but I'm planning to steer him towards some kind of freestyle freak-out. My mom is totally going to be pissed.

My New Haircut

So, I've been rocking my hair Jean Seberg-style for some time now. It's a classic look, and it's totally done me right, but I've been in the mood for a change. When I saw photos of Kirsten Dunst at the Mona Lisa Smile premier, I realized I had found my new haircut. I took a page ripped from US Weekly to my beautician, and, voilà: a whole new me.

I don't think this is going to be a problem. I mean, Kirsten and I don't usually go to the same restaurants or the same parties, and I haven't been to a New York opening, film festival, or major awards ceremony for awhile. However, if you happen to hear that she's pissed, please let me know so I can send her a basket of mini muffins or something.

MORE: Public Service Announcement: Kirsten Dunst's New Haircut

New Shoes

I scored big this Christmas. Some of my gifts—like the crockpot—were wonderfully practical. Others—diamond earrings, cashmere sweaters—were extravagant surprises. The most shocking present I got, though, was a pair of shoes that my mom picked out.

Shoes are a highly personal matter. Choosing them for someone else is a perilous, almost presumptuous, enterprise. I was, honestly, a little disturbed to tear off the wrapping paper and find a shoebox—it felt kind of like getting a bra from my parents. I could hardly have been more pleased with the contents, though, and my mom—actually well aware of the gift-giving risk she was taking—was just as excited by my response as I was by the footwear. "I walked past them a million times in the shoe department at Kaufman's," she said, "and they just screamed 'Jessica' every time I saw them." I was simultaneously flattered and awed, yet again, to discover that my mom knows me better than I think she does.

Truly, if I had to pick one pair of shoes to represent me, I would like to think that these shoes could do the job. I realize that I might be flattering myself, but, if I got to do the picking, these shoes would be the ones. They're a little bit girly, but in a punk rock kind of way. With the round toe, they've got a '40s-chic thing that borders on the cartoonish. They're not exactly comfortable, but then again, neither am I.

I have no idea what I'm going to wear them with, but that almost feels beside the point.

I Like to Wear Men's Clothes

It's time to come out of the closet, as it were: I like to wear men's clothes. I've been fighting my menswear fetish for awhile, I think because unisex clothes—jeans, big t-shirts, sweats—are the default uniform of women who take no interest in how they look. I'm not talking about sporty gals with glowing skin and bouncy ponytails; I mean the kind of woman who can be seen at Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon, dragging several loud, sticky children through home electronics. I am never going to be a natural beauty graced with gamine athleticism, but I need to get over my fear that I'm going to look like a NASCAR fan if I wear chinos and a long-sleeve tee.

As much as I love the idea of sequins and marabou feathers, the fact is that I feel like I'm in drag when I dress up like a girl. I feel like I'm adopting a persona, putting on a costume. I'm so much more at ease in a pair of cords, an oxford shirt, and a jacket, and it's not just a matter of physical comfort: I just feel more like myself.

I do not, however, feel like a man, nor do I believe that anyone will mistake me for a man. I always have on something girly—lipstick, pretty earrings, femme fatale shoes. And I certainly don't look butch: My inspiration comes not from James Dean, but from Marlene Dietrich, Katherine Hepburn, and Jean Seberg The clothes I like best are informed by menswear, but cut for a woman: They accentuate my shape without making a big deal about it.

I believe the ensemble I wore on Thanksgiving was my ideal outfit: a beautifully tailored pair of pants, a perfectly fitted jacket, a soft satin camisole, and kitten-heeled mules. I think, in fact, that I might look more womanly in manly clothes. I certainly feel more womanly, as I feel more like myself.

From this day forward, I vow to embrace my masculine aesthetic, and shake my hips unabashedly even when they're encased in tweed trousers.