The shuck (and jive) of fashion passion

<i> Gonick lives in San Francisco. This article is adapted from her book, "Mostly True Confessions: Looking for Love in the '80s</i> .<i> "</i> I

studied the art of dressing under the tutelage of Leslie Harris, a friend and co-worker whose clothes are always perfect. My education was inaugurated in a state of coercion, and it happened

one night when Leslie watched me select my outfit for an office party. “What are you going to wear?” she asked me as we stood in my bedroom. My eyes roamed the room and settled on their

first identifiable target: a red sweater still encased in dry-cleaner plastic. There was half the outfit. “That,” I pointed. My glance then traveled three more feet to an armchair over which

were draped still clean, nearly unwrinkled black pants. “And that,” I concluded. “That’s how you choose your clothes?” “Sure. Proximity and cleanliness.” Leslie sighed heavily. “You have to

let me take you shopping,” she pleaded. “I hate to shop.” I truly did. Stores frightened me; I was dazed by the plethora of merchandise, almost paralyzed with indecision. “Bite your tongue.

Let’s just say your shopping potential is still untapped.” “I don’t want to learn to shop,” I whined. “I don’t approve of women spending their hard-earned money on clothes competition. I

refuse to be a fashion victim.” “I’m proud to be one,” Leslie said. Just Legs and a Smile I resisted further. “Men don’t notice what women wear, so why bother?” A man had once told me that

he liked nice legs and a sweet smile on a woman, and that was about all he saw. I had decided to base most of my fashion views on this one remark. “Some men do notice, but that’s not the

point anyway. We don’t dress for men--we dress for ourselves. Nice clothes make you confident.” “I’m already confident.” “No, you only think you’re confident,” she said, slyly. Leslie was

right; my confidence was plummeting with every word she spoke. “Now go ahead and get dressed,” she directed, “and tomorrow morning I’m taking you downtown.” When Leslie met me in front of

Macy’s the next morning, I was in jeans and a devastated blouse and she was, as usual, flawlessly coordinated. “You look terrific even when you shop,” I sighed, already feeling defeated.

“You never know who you’ll run into,” she explained. “Oh, yes I do. No one. No one is exactly who I always run into.” “Don’t forget the salespeople. We want them to know who they’re dealing

with.” Stubborn Resistance “Right, Christie Brinkley and Bozo the Clown. Is this going to cost me a fortune?” My unfashionable heels were instinctively digging themselves into the sidewalk.

“We’re not making any actual purchases today,” she informed me. “This is a preliminary field trip.” We entered the store and Leslie turned to me solemnly. “The first rule,” she intoned, “is

to stay away from the junior department. One should never shop to the beat of bad music.” I nodded. “The second rule is to shop early in the morning, before the crowds come in. And the third

is to not shop when you’re depressed.” “Too late,” I said, feeling that familiar department-store malaise envelop me. I stood in my traditional stance of paralysis while Leslie dug

efficiently through the racks. “This would be nice on you,” she said, holding up a teal blue drop-waisted dress. Of course, I didn’t know the blue was teal until Leslie told me. “Mona told

me I shouldn’t wear drop waists. She said my hips were too big.” Leslie frowned. “Did you ever notice that Mona was born without hips? And that she doesn’t like you very much?” “Oh?” No

Taste at All “Rule No. 4: Don’t listen to people who don’t have your best interests at heart. Listen to _ me._ “ She continued to hold up unexpected items, fearlessly separating the teal

blue from the chaff, soliciting my opinion and horrified to see that I never had one. “It’s not that you have bad taste,” she said after two hours. “It’s that you haven’t got _ any_ .” “I’m

hungry,” I complained. “Let’s have lunch.” “Fine, this is enough for the first day.” She ushered me outside and stopped at a newsstand. “Give me 10 bucks,” she ordered. I complied; she gave

me an armful of fashion magazines. “This is your first reading assignment. Have it done by Tuesday.” “What about lunch?” “You can’t afford it now.” Obediently, I went through each magazine

page by page, trying to absorb the concept of fashion. Leslie was right: The models, whose foremothers had undoubtedly all attended the Twelve Oaks barbecue, beamed with the confidence of

being well-dressed. They also beamed with the confidence of being 21, gorgeous and incredibly well paid. “You’ve completed your prerequisite of visual exposure,” Leslie told me Tuesday as we

entered Saks. “Today we use a dressing room.” I stripped to my unfashionable underclothes and stood mutely as Leslie brought in skirt after blouse after dress. Kamali Incantation “Why are

all the shoulders padded?” I asked, naively. “Norma Kamali,” she replied. I thought it was some sort of incantation. “Nor-ma-ka-mah-lee?” I repeated. “Try this on,” she suggested, handing me

a hot-pink jacket. It was surprisingly wonderful. “Why does it cost $80?” I asked. “Don’t ruin the moment. Next week you’ll be ready to pick something all by yourself.” My education

continued. “You’re making remarkable progress,” Leslie finally said proudly. “I think you’ll be ready for your diploma as soon as you select something to wear to Jeff’s barbecue.” “This is

the aspect of fashion that I hate,” I reminded her. “I hate the illusion that I’ll have a better time at a party if I’m well dressed.” “But you will.” I was all decked out in well-cut white

linen when Leslie came to pick me up for the party. My earrings were compelling, my shoes attractive. Leslie was amazed. “I like this,” she said, feeling my sleeve. “What did it cost?” “It

was on sale. I got it for less than $50.” She nodded approvingly. “Quick! Are Anne Klein and Calvin Klein related?” “No!” I shouted triumphantly. “And who should wear miniskirts?” “Nobody!”

Jeff’s party looked like every other party I’d been to in the last six months: fabulous food and a dearth of sexual tension. I handed Jeff a bottle of champagne, greeted his girlfriend and

stationed myself near the outdoor grill. A man shucking oysters smiled at me and said hello. “Hello,” I answered. “Are you married?” “Yes,” he replied. Shucker Shucked “Nice not to meet

you,” I said, turning away. I never used to ask this intrusive question, but I got tired of unwittingly dating men who forgot to mention their marital status. “Having fun?” Leslie asked me.

She was wearing, as usual, $400 worth of clothes. She looked wonderful. But so, finally, did I. “Oh yeah, this is a real hoot,” I said. “But don’t you feel confident? You look great in

white.” “I love my white linen dress. But that doesn’t make that cute oyster shucker any more available.” “Look,” Leslie hissed. “I said nice clothes would make you feel more confident--I

didn’t say they would change the social structure of contemporary urban life! If you’re going to be ignored at a party, wouldn’t you rather look your best while it’s happening?” “No,

actually. It sort of makes it worse.” I was beginning to hate Leslie, Christie Brinkley and the whole fashion industry. I didn’t care how I looked or who talked to me--I was going to drink

champagne and eat as many oysters as Jeff would allow. And I’d dance with myself if I had to. I returned to the grill and began loading oysters onto a plastic plate. “You didn’t let me

finish,” said the oyster shucker, as he handed me a lemon wedge. “I’m married but I’ve been separated from my wife for a year. She moved in with our tax man.” “Oh,” I said, unimpressed. He

sat beside me and poured out two glasses of champagne. I ate silently, staring icily into the distance. “I’m a pushover for white linen,” he said. I dropped an oyster on the lawn. “You are?”

I asked, suddenly grinning ear to well-dressed ear. What to Wear? Life is a wonderful thing. My oyster shucker proceeded to confide in me the story of his failed marriage, his career plans

and his need for my phone number. I gave him my card and immediately started agonizing over what to wear when I next saw him. “Excuse me a moment,” I said, speeding across the patio to

Leslie’s side. “I need more clothes,” I squealed to her. “Can you come shopping with me tomorrow?” “You’re a clothes graduate now,” she insisted. “You don’t need me any more.” Could Leslie

be right? Was I now qualified to waste days of my life obsessing about every article of clothing I wore? Could I now, without supervision, spend half my paycheck on vain pursuits? I looked

at my oyster shucker who waited for me patiently. I didn’t care what he wore; he happened to look beautiful in jeans and a T-shirt. Would he really like me less in similar attire? “He loves

this dress, Leslie. Do you think he’ll still love it if he sees me in it twice?” “No, he’ll think you’re lame. You’d better go downtown tomorrow and get something new.” “All right,” I

promised. I returned to the shucker and spent the rest of the afternoon with him, sharing champagne and life stories. I guess we shared a little too much champagne because, as much as he

admired my dress, he couldn’t help but spill neon-orange barbecue sauce down the front of it. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned!” “Don’t worry, clothes are meaningless,” I

assured him. MORE TO READ