My personal fashion consultant has agreed with the cashier: the jacket is me. I'm far more fashion conscious in NYC than I am in the midst of the prairie. I'm wearing pointy-toed, short stiletto heels (you know, the ones that make you wish you were a chick, Iffy), a short-sleeved black cashmere pullover, and my new ersatz Jackie O jacket – Jol and I will be going to 2 birthday parties this evening after my workshop.
For my 17th birthday, I'd gotten a subscription to Vogue magazine. In every issue, it seemed there was a story about how to transform your office attire for a night on the town. I was living and working in Naperville at the time and I couldn't really imagine not being able to go home before going out, so the stories didn't make much sense to me. Now, as I sit on a train going the wrong direction (damn! this is why I lived in Manhattan when I lived here – it's harder to get on the wrong train, and even if you do, there are 5 people who will tell you how to get where you're going – in Brooklyn, a woman just nodded that yes, I was headed to MIdtown – sure, after I see this whole blighted borough), the idea of dressing for the dressiest event in your day makes some sense.
Before my kid was 2, she was arguing with me about what she was going to wear for the day. I would throw up my hands in Jewish-mother fashion and say, "Oy! we shouldn't have these arguments for another 15 years!" At 4, when other kids were laying their coats on the floor to get them on right, Jol would look at herself in a mirror, cut a pattern from a paper bag and put it on with the holes exactly where they needed to be. She started dressing me when she was in grade school. I would come down the stairs feeling fine, and she would scowl, "You are not
Now she works at Vogue magazine.