Style Is

There’s this Gore Vidal idea, that “style is knowing who you are and what you want to say and not giving a damn.”

But what I’ve been finding is that while I have a grasp of the last two tenets, the first one is still throwing me for a loop.   Which is not to say that I’ve learned nothing about who I am.  I’m proud to say that by now I know that:

1. No, drop waist dresses will not be flattering on me no matter how I contort myself in front of the mirror.  Same thing with those drawstring waist dresses.  I’m waiting with bated breath for both of those two to go out of style so that I can find clothes that fit me again.
2. I will never be able to look like the girls in the Dior Addict lipstick ads because the nice girl at Sephora once spent an afternoon patiently applying every shade of lipstick to my mouth, but apparently my lips are just naturally darker than the girls that Dior picks to wear bright, pretty pink lipsticks.
3. Regardless of what pictures I show my hairstylist, I will not emerge from the salon looking like Blake Lively or Michelle Williams.  It’s comforting to know that my hairstylist knows what works for me, and will kindly listen to me babble about blunt bangs, but then go ahead and snip my hair into a shape that will save me from looking like the Sphinx.

These are all minor things.  More recently I came closer to realizing that although I will post just about every Garance Dore and The Sartorialist photo onto a Pinterest board, I will not be stopped by either of them on the street any time soon—especially not because the unbelievable happened today:  I went out today and actually purchased a pair of Dansko clogs.  This expedition into the comfy shoe store was preceded by a strange recurring pain in my foot where I lose the ability to bend it after tromping about for too long in less practical shoes.  Usually I give in slowly to the pain—switching to boots with Nike-approved inserts, then swamping them out for a pair of Converses with inserts, and then—as a last resort—spending a day or two in my gym sneakers.  Quelle horreur.  

But today, as I gingerly trotted through Washington Square Park in my gleaming white running sneakers, I thought that enough was enough.  I am going to accept who I am, and what I am is apparently a pair of unhappy and rebelling feet.  And so at lunch I hoofed over to the odd comfy shoe store hidden between Italian shoe boutiques and owned up to needing a pair of Danskos.  And, reader, my feet are in loooooove.  Who knew?

Although I seem to be in need of Dansko clogs, I’m okay with it.  Just like I was hesitant to buy that first Longchamp bag last fall when my shoulder stopped working because of years of heavy leather bags.  (Now my shoulder is on speaking terms with me again.  But it is threatening to boycott if I load any more things into my bag.)  And like when I, very reluctantly, plunked down my credit card before that for a pair of Birkenstocks (No, this was after they came out with more girly designs.  I swear.) when my high heels rubbed me the wrong way.  At the rate I’m going, I will look like a Paragon Sports ad before I hit my 30s.  But, I tell myself, at least my body won’t hate me yet.  Who knows?  If I start wearing Danskos now, maybe I’ll be able to wear Louboutins when I’m in a nursing home.