Rising Floods

More and more, you see young, evidently fashionable men intentionally wearing long pants that expose not only ankle and sock, but even an expanse of the leg itself. In the vernacular of my youth, such pants were known as “floods,” and you could commit no greater fashion sin—or more readily expose yourself to ridicule—than wearing them. Can it really be that they are fashionable now?

I first learned about floods when I was about 10 years old or so, at the age when you first become dimly —and then pointedly—aware that there apparently is a prevailing approach to the world and if you vary from the acceptable norm you are exposing yourself to uncomfortable mockery. It was about the same time you realized that you might want to plead that your Dad stop giving you a buzz cut with the home barbershop kit he bought and let you go to a licensed professional so you could get a haircut that looked somewhat like what other guys had. But whenever the precise epiphany occurred, at some point the jeering comments and derisive laughter at the fact that your long pants weren’t quite long enough powerfully drove home the point that flood pants are an unforgivable fashion transgression. And ever since I’ve been acutely focused on making sure that any pants I’m wearing brush my shoe tops, if not (in the ‘70s) engulf my shoes altogether in monster bell bottoms.

But fashions change, obviously, and now it is abundantly clear that floods are not the anathema they once were. Maybe male ankle-displaying pant length will capture the culture and be seen everywhere—or maybe they will be as short-lived as past brief fads like Nehru jackets or Earth shoes. But even if floods become the norm, I think my indoctrination has been too strong and too ingrained. I’ll just keep my ankles to myself.

Sock Suck

Socks are, for the most part, the article of clothing that is most likely to be taken for granted. Although a few Beau Brummells have tried to turn the sock into a colorful fashion accessory, for most men, and women too, the humble sock is a purely functional item. Socks are donned, then immediately covered by shoes, and after that happens we forget about them, They warm the foot, serve as an essential layer between foot and shoe so you don’t get a blister, soak up the smells feet are prone to produce, and are promptly tossed into the laundry basket at the end of the day without a second thought.

But when a sock fails of its essential purpose and acts in a way that demands attention, you’ve got a problem. And that’s what has happened with these “anklet” socks Kish got me to wear on my morning walks.

They go on just fine. But as soon as I start walking, the top of the sock inevitably departs the ankle region and starts inching down to the heel. I detect its progress, and suddenly I’m focused on my sock movement and not on my walk. A few more steps and the sock successfully rounds the heel and heads down to its preferred destination around the ball of the foot. By the the of my walk the Achilles tendon and heel are left wholly unprotected and the sock is bunched up and wadded around the tip of the foot, slides off when I remove my shoe, and then has to be fished out from deep within the shoe.

I don’t know if there is something weird about my walking gait or foot movement that causes this problem, but I do know that socks aren’t supposed to behave in this fashion. At least, my other socks don’t. And when a sock acts out, it’s really annoying. So these socks are going to be donated to Goodwill, where hopefully someone will have better luck with them.

Because life is too short to have socks that suck.

Shaking Up The Old Sock Drawer

For my birthday the California SIL got me a very colorful pair of socks.  They’re socks that paint a kind of picture — in this case, a desert landscape complete with a Saguaro cactus or two and a red desert sky.

The new socks will really shake up my sock drawer, which otherwise could be accurately shown on a black and white TV set.  In short, it’s a study in blacks, grays, and whites, without much of a rainbow effect.  I’m not sure how my other boring socks will react to these gaudy interlopers.

There has been a bit of a revolution in men’s socks over the past decade or so, with lots of fellows showing stripes and checks and polka dots and bold hues in the ankle coverage area.  I’ve been slow to get into the sock fashion game, because I’m not a very fashionable person by nature.  Plus, I think that most people expect drab sockwear to go with the gray and blue suits and discreet ties that are a lawyer’s standard uniform.  But times clearly are changing, and you see more male lawyers getting into stocking style and hosiery hues.

So, I’m happily going to give my desert-themed socks a try.  And I’ll be interested in seeing whether bright and colorful socks have one key feature:  are they less likely to get lost around clothes dryers?

 

Say Yes To The Dress?

We’ve got a wedding in the family coming up later this year.  Although the blessed event itself is still months in the future, the time for carefully analyzing and evaluating what dresses should be worn to the wedding and the rehearsal dinner apparently is . . . now!

I had no idea that quite so many websites featured dresses for the family members who are attending weddings.  Dresses of every imaginable length, cut, and hemline.  Dresses with jackets and without.  Dresses that feature something mysteriously called a “bodice.” Sleeveless dresses, dresses with poofy shoulders, and dresses with curious slashes, like they’ve been attacked by Freddy Krueger.  Dresses in every conceivable color of the rainbow, from azure to lilac, from saffron to magenta, from sea foam to garnet, with every subtle gradation and shade in between.

Never has fashion been the subject of such passion.

For the husband, there is no avoiding it.  When I get home I’m going to be asked to choose between dress styles with subtle differences discernible only to Parisian designers.  I’m going to be asked whether I prefer the periwinkle or the lavender, the teal or the aquamarine.  And, because every dress website that Kish has accessed has deposited a girl scout squadron’s worth of cookies on our home computer, every pop up ad on every sports website that I check these days features solemn women modeling dresses.

After some weeks of this, I suddenly became concerned.  “Honey, should I be worried about what I’m going to wear to the wedding?” I asked.  Kish laughed heartily.  “Don’t worry about it,” she said.  “No one pays attention to what a man is wearing.”

Too bad, because I was thinking of something in cornflower.

An Ohio State Jersey Is Always In Style

At today’s Ohio State-Buffalo game, Ohio Stadium will be a sea of scarlet and gray.  Countless fans will be wearing their Ohio State jerseys to add to the color and pageantry of college football.

People living outside Columbus may not realize, however, that an Ohio State jersey is not something that you wear only to football games.  No, it’s clearly a much more versatile garment from a fashion standpoint.

This summer Kish and I were sitting in the airport and I noticed a guy wearing an OSU jersey — and a blue blazer, too.  I’ve seen college girls wearing ultra short jerseys or tied off jerseys to achieve the bare midriff look.  On the Fridays before games, you’ll see clerks behind counters wearing their jerseys, and scarlet and gray-clad office workers coming out of their buildings for lunch.  Men and women, boys and girls, they’ll wear their jerseys with shorts, with jeans, with sleeves cut off, and over gray hoodies.  People get married in their jerseys and wear them to high school proms.  I don’t think I’ve personally seen someone wear a Buckeyes jersey with a tuxedo — but give it time.

Unfortunately, not everyone looks good in an Ohio State jersey — which is why I don’t own one.  It’s an article of clothing made for athletes in peak physical condition, after all.  It doesn’t look quite as compelling when its tensile fibers are straining to cover a serious beer belly and the too-tight fit gives the wearer an unfortunately revealing, molded look.  We’ll see some of that today, no doubt . . . but it’s just the price you pay to be an Ohio State fan.

Dissing The Sneads

During our recent vacation, Kish and Russell had high times making fun of these tennis shoes.  Kish said they looked like golf shoes and called them the Sammy Sneads every time I put them on.  Russell, on the other hand, shook his head and sadly advised that shoes made by Skechers are per se uncool.

I bought the shoes at Kohl’s.  They were on the bargain shelf and cost a small fraction of the other gym shoes.  I didn’t know whether they are socially acceptable or not, because I pay no attention to shoe fashion.  I didn’t care whether popular people wear shoes with square toes, round toes, or pointed toes, or whether stripes on the sides are “in” or “out.”

What I did know is that I rebel at the notion of paying more than $100 for a pair of gym shoes that I wear around the neighborhood.  The prices of such shoes seem ridiculous for mass-produced rubber, plastic, and cloth creations.  Obviously, people are paying for brands and status symbols.

I could care less about that.  I admit I’m a cheapskate.  I’ll go for low cost and functionality over “branding” any time.  I’m not a runner.  I don’t play competitive sports.  I’m not trying to make a fashion statement when I go for a walk.

Give me durable shoes that fit and leave money in my wallet, and I’ll wear them happily — “Sneads” or not.

The Classics

I love old cars.  Who doesn’t?

In some ways, automobile designs are like fashion design.  The ’30s and ’40s were times of classic approaches, with clean lines and beautifully appealing exteriors.  By the ’70s — well, leisure suits and the Ford Granada just don’t stack up.

I’m not precisely sure what year this vintage Lincoln dates from, but it is a beauty.

Asking For Outfit Guidance From The Fashion-Challenged

Every morning my lovely wife takes great care in assembling her outfit, thoughtfully matching her skirt or pants, blouse, sweater, shoes and a fashion accessory like a scarf or pearls.  And then she foolishly throws caution to the winds by asking me what I think of the final combination.

I always say that her choices look good — because, in fact, they always do.  The unfortunate reality, however, is that my opinion is without value because I have absolutely no fashion sense.  I can’t distinguish between subtle shades of black.  I don’t know when — if ever — it’s appropriate to wear plaid.  I have no clue which colors “go together” and which colors “clash.”  (“Clash” seems like pretty violent imagery for a clothing-related issue, incidentally.)  Indeed, I can’t even figure out how to hang up most of Kish’s clothes, what with all of the mysterious straps and outsized or undersized holes, much less express a meaningful view of whether they logically should be worn together.

I probably inherited my fashion obliviousness from my father.  During the ’70s he plunged into the outlandish clothing trends of the decade with reckless abandon, going all in for brightly colored Sansabelt slacks, loud checked jackets, white loafers with the gold buckles, leisure suits, and shirts with zippers.  It’s probably fortunate for me that, as a lawyer, I’m expected to wear basic gray or blue suits, white shirts, and some kind of drab tie.  I can manage that without embarrassing myself.

So this morning, Kish will ask how she looks, and I’ll say she looks great as she always does.  Lately, though, I’ve been noticing that after I express my heartfelt opinions she’s likely to go change her outfit, anyway.  Maybe she’s not relying on my sense of chic after all.

Gum-Snapping Fashion

When we were in New York City, we noticed many young women who were dressed to the nines.  They were wearing breeches, and knee-high boots, and dainty short white coats, and scarves that were carefully tied so as to look as if they had been casually tied.  A very strong high fashion vibe was in the air, everywhere — but then the whole look was destroyed when you saw the young lady, mouth agape, chomping away on a wad of gum.

You never see Vogue models with gum in their mouths.  There’s a reason for that — the vigorous jaw workout that goes with gum chewing is neither attractive nor classy.  You can put together the most attractive high-fashion clothing ensemble imaginable, one that would fit comfortably on the streets of Paris, and if you’re grinding away on a lump of gum you may as well be wearing ratty, ill-fitting sweats and walk outside with a bad case of “bed head.”  It is simply impossible to look cool and fashionable when you’re chewing gum.

I find this curious.  Anyone who pays as much attention to their appearance as these young women obviously do must be aware of how their unseemly gum-snapping is perceived.  Do they just not care how they look to strangers on the street as they chomp away, and do they then dispose of their gum in some fashionable way when they reach their fashionable destination?  Or is the gum an intentional statement that is designed to convey some kind of ironic message too subtle for me to comprehend?

The Alexander McQueen Exhibition At The Met

During our brief visit to New York on Saturday, at Russell’s suggestion we stopped by the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the exhibition Alexander McQueen:  Savage Beauty.

I was not familiar with McQueen, a radically creative clothing designer who tragically committed suicide at the height of his fame, and I was dubious of waiting in line to see clothing.  But I learned that McQueen’s work is extremely interesting, even for someone who is not stylish or, for that matter, even cognizant of stylishness.  McQueen’s creations, which use unusual cuts and fabrics and components, strike deeper chords that touch even fashion-know-nothings like me and address issues like gender empowerment in fascinating ways.

The design of the exhibition — which marries sound, McQueen’s creations, and video — is very well done, and I give The Met credit for focusing on fashion design as an extension of art.  However, my enjoyment of the exhibition was greatly hindered by the fact that The Met staff let so many people enter at a time that it became impossible to really appreciate McQueen’s creations.  The throngs of people pushing and shoving to get better views are just too distracting.  I don’t mind waiting in line — and the wait for this exhibition was probably about a half hour — but once you get in you should be able to step back and appreciate McQueen’s work  without risking an elbow to the ribs or getting run over by a wheelchair.

The Penny Chronicles

My name is Penny.

Sometimes, the rest of the pack goes away and I spend a few days with a bunch of other dogs.  This happened just a few days ago.  It’s not that bad, really.  In fact, there is one thing about it that I really like:  they give me a little neckerchief to wear when I’m there.  This last time, I got a pretty pink one with white polka dots.  I really love it!

Don’t get me wrong.  For the most part, I prefer to go natural.  I’m perfectly comfortable in my own skin, and I know I look pretty good already in my normal, copper-colored coat.  And too much clothing would be a pain.  Why would I want to be fumbling with trousers when I need to answer Nature’s call?

Still, I enjoy being fashionable once in a while.  I think a bright splash of color around my neck makes me look even better.  It helps me to stand out from the rest of the pack, and I like that.  When I go for a walk around the neighborhood in my pink neckerchief, I walk with head held high.

A Fat Guy In A Thin Country

Paris makes me want to suck in my gut.

As you walk around the city, you can’t help but notice that there aren’t many overweight people here. Everybody, regardless of their age, seems to be thin, stylishly dressed, and moving fast.  The contrast with America, where you see seriously obese people everywhere, is startling.

Why is this so?  Maybe it is because more Parisians seem to smoke than Americans — at least, that’s the impression I get after a few days here — or maybe it is because food is expensive, and people have cut back a little on the chow-downs as a result.  More likely, it is because this is a city of walkers and cyclists.  On weekdays, you see people hustling down the streets to get to work or riding their bikes as part of their daily commute.  My guess is that few Parisians follow the American model of going to their garage in the morning, hopping in their car, and then driving to a parking garage a block away from their workplace, where they will sit on their butts all day.

I also think there is a strong social disapproval of being overweight — implicit, perhaps, but nevertheless a factor.  Everyone here wears fashionable clothing, from hats down to shoes.  If you want to join everyone else and be part of the haute couture parade, you’ve got to keep the weight off.  It’s hard to look stylish, and Parisian, if you are hauling around an extra 60 pounds.