U Got The Look

(OK, if someone can name that song and is as obsessed with the artist as I am, we’re probably the same person and would be best friends in real life. Just so you know.)

So, you know how a lot of people say they have a type? Like the kind of person they always go for or are attracted to. Their “type.” Well for the longest time, I refused to believe that I had a type. “No way,” I’d say. “NONE of the guys I’ve gone for have anything in common… no type for me.” Even my friends didn’t see a pattern in the guys I was interested in. There was no rhyme or reason to my selection.

Until recently, that is. I started noticing a trend toward the end of my senior year, but I wasn’t sure until now. My type? It’s not preppy or jock or musician or even brooding thinker (although I do love the brainy ones). Nope, none of those. My type is tall, skinny jackass.

Perhaps I should explain. For some reason I like the tall, lanky guys, and cockiness is a major plus. However, I don’t mean jackass in the fratty, I-am-male-therefore-I-am-the-shit way. There’s a big difference between being a bit of a jackass and being a jerky asshole. (Wow, I am doing a LOT of swearing up in huurr….sorrrryyy). I like a guy who can match wits with me, who likes a little verbal sparring, and who doesn’t come at me with sickeningly sweet lines. Actually, I’m suspicious of overly nice guys. I keep the ones with the too-kind, too-smooth words at arms length. What are you hiding? What’s your angle? I can’t help it — that’s just the way I think.

But that’s not to say that I don’t like nice guys at all. Have I confused you yet? Because I’m starting to get a little lost myself. Let me see if I can work this out. The jackasses I like will get in my face and tease me, but underneath, they are actually good guys. They like my fiestiness and are usually trying to actually get to know me, not just escort me home from the bar. I like a guy who can put up a good fight, and even enjoy it, because in my opinion, they can handle a chick who can be a little bitchy in a funny, fun way. (Note: this does NOT mean high-maintenance or demanding or naggy). Those are the guys that like smart girls, and you know what? I have major respect for that.

So what spurred this discussion of my type? Well, even in a new city, I’m finding myself drawn to the same. In college, I didn’t seriously date a whole lot, but that’s not to say that I didn’t ever go out or spend time with members of the opposite sex. Because I did. And almost all of the guys who really made me sit up and pay attention had these qualities. Well, actually the one (as in I did not have another boyfriend in college) serious boyfriend I had was only tall and skinny. No jackass factor. Just emo. Which is a problem since I’m not the biggest fan of talking about my “feelings” and “the relationship.” We broke up. Duh. But moving on… I like the tall ones (over 6 feet s’il vous plait) because I can wear my biggest heels and have no worries. I really have no idea why I like the skinny ones. Maybe it’s from spending so much time around runner and swimmer boys when I was younger. And the jackass-iness? (so not a word) I think I’ve already explained that one.

When I go out now, I notice the lanky ones smirking instead of sauntering, the ones having conversations instead of just leaning back and surveying their victims (oops, I mean the girls at the bar). I even recently met a guy at a pub (doesn’t that just sound so UK?) near me, and after about an hour of flirting/exchanging clever insults, he said, smiling, “I’m sorry, I’m kind of a jackass.” To which I replied (because I have no verbal filter whatsoever), “Nah, it’s fine. You’re just my type.”

Give Me Two Perrr, I Need Two Perrr

(QUICK! Name that song! Anyone? Anyone?)

So today, folks, I’d like to talk about shoes. Mind you, I’m not one of those crazy people who just CANNOT STOP talking about her love of footwear, although I do love a nice new pair of kicks. I actually work with one of those, and it’s annoying, so I stay fairly nonverbal about my adoration for shoes. Anyway, point is I think that more than any other accessory, new shoes can make you feel like a million bucks even if you only went to Payless and paid $14.95 for them.

BUT (yes, there is a but, here), I tend to be rather discriminatory when it comes to doling out my affection. I do not love all shoes equally. Oh no. When it comes to shoes, I never do halfway. It’s all or nothing, baby.

And by ‘all’ I mean towering 4-plus inch heels. By ‘nothing’ I mean my Asics or maybe flip flops (OK and some of these crazy fun flat sandals this summer, but whatever, these details are really going to ruin my argument). However, right now, I’m going to say something that may appall many of you. You have been warned so here it goes: I HATE ballet flats. Hate hate hate hate hate. Sure, they’re cute and, to some, are a good alternative to heels when you want to dress up but have a short date. But they are NOT comfortable and unless you are Gisele, they probably don’t do much for you. They don’t improve your posture and really don’t give your feet much support. And if you are in possession of cankles (which I pride myself on not having, so I say this for anyone else’s own good), flats will NOT help you. Plus they’re SO girly, and despite my undying love for all things with ankle-breaking height, girly I am not.

Another thing I hate are one or two-inch heels. I mean they can’t even really call themselves heels! The are frauds, fakes, impostors, high-heel wannabes. Suck it up and toss on an extra inch or two. As the lovely Victoria Beckham states in her book, “That Extra Half an Inch,” “One shoe style I have little love for is the kitten heel. I think a lot of women see them as the wearable compromise to high heels, but in fact they have none of the benefits of high heels yet also none of the casual ease of flats.” Amen, sister. I still don’t really like flats, but I don’t mind throwing on a pair of cute Pumas if wearing heels is just not practical and wearing running shoes with an outfit would be downright ugly. Anyway, point is that kitten heels are masquerading as heels when they don’t really do much other than add height, and not much of it at that. They aren’t any more comfortable and they just make you sit back on your heels and slouch in a weird, indescribable way. And they don’t make your calves look like you run 15 miles a day the way a pair a sweet pumps does. I feel like they almost give you cankles if you don’t already have them.

Now, I will tell you a little something else about why I have this all or nothing philosophy when it comes to shoes. I’m not comfortable in between. I can of course wear my running shoes forever, because they are running shoes, duh. They’re meant to support your feet. It’s what they do. But honestly, I can wear heels almost as long. Today, for example, I wore my heels from 10 am to 10pm. And these are big heels, no wussy summer sandals for me. I’ve walked literally MILES in these. No, they aren’t amazingly supportive or anything. They’re from Payless and they have four-inch cork (ish, c’mon it’s Payless, I don’t even want to know what my shoes are made of) heels. But I wear them everywhere.

Part of me knows that it’s all mental when it comes to my wearing such stilts. I’m 5’7″ish and when I put these babies on, I’m almost 5’11”. This is especially useful when I’m out and I meet a guy. If he’s shorter than I am, then I see no future for us (sad, right?). But if I wear my heels and I still have to look up a little? Well then, sir, you’ve passed the first test. (You are totally allowed to call me superficial now). Additionally, when I go out with my three lovely cousins who are all over six feet tall and look like MODELS, I don’t feel like such a misfit. Also, I just really like to be taller than half of the bar’s patrons. I may have some issues with competitiveness. And power. Either way, the “high-heel high” is what makes me forget that I’m wearing what should be rather painful contraptions on my feet.

The other factor that enables me to wear such a high heels is all physiological. My feet are beat up and scuffed and broken and downright mangled from years of dance and running (more on this topic at another time actually). I once had a guy I knew grab for my feet and I highly advised — warned him even –against it. He didn’t believe that a girl’s feet could be that bad so he went for it anyway –and paid dearly. OK well maybe not DEARLY but he did recoil and tell me they were gross. Well, duh, I told you not to do it. Anyway, it’s not that my feet are dirty… they’re just… tough. And I don’t do anything to them but paint the nails so that the part showing in sandals looks pretty. I probably won’t do anything either since their toughness makes it a lot easier for me to stand for hours in high heels.

The other thing that makes it easier? The ridiculous size of my feet. I have this theory that because my feet are so long, even when I wear tall heels or wedges, there is still a good portion of my foot on the ground. So I still have a pretty good base to stand on. And since I’ve already shared so much with you about my tootsies, I might as well tell you what I call my feet. I used to call them boats or skis, but now folks, I have decided to call them my drag queen feet. Mostly because the drag queens I’ve seen (I live pretty darn close to Boystown, kids), all walk amazingly well in heels for not having been at it as long as some of the females I know. Rarely do they stumble or look like they’re limping or lilting to one side. No way, they’re pros. And so am I. As one of the girls at work said after I told her my “drag queen feet” theory, “Thank goodness you have a feminine face.” Thanks. I think.

Forever, forever, ever, forever, ever?

Seeing how I work dangerously close to State St. in downtown Chicago, I tend to visit Forever 21 quite a bit (or Forever XI or twentyone or whatever the hell kinds of labels they are throwing on the clothes now). Sometimes I just browse and sometimes I actually buy things I don’t need — which, let’s be honest, is pretty much the entire store.

Exhibit A:

And there’s no Exhibit B because I couldn’t actually find what I bought online.

Anyway, today, in my quest for more lightweight dresses (it’s HOT and humid here and showing up sweating to work is making me feel a bit more unprofessional than I already do), I started thinking about how funny it is that this cheap-o, often trashy store is THRIVING and shows no signs of stopping. And please, don’t get me wrong, I LOVE this store, and would probably be devastated if it were suddenly no longer. And I can’t really afford much else besides this shop and H&M (gotta love the Euro trends). But, folks, if you consider Forevs to be a classy establishment, you may want to consider reassessing… your whole life.

OK, but point of this post (drumroll, please, David Letterman style):

THE FIVE MOST COMMON PHRASES OVERHEARD AT FOREVER 21

5) How many washes do you think I can get out of this before it melts?

4) Hmm… Go up two sizes from your normal one and it should fit just right.

3) Why are the prices so weird? Does this really say $13.47?

2) Did they start a children’s line?

1) Is this a shirt or a dress?

Defining Personal Style…Sort Of

So I was just thinking all about personal style and what mine is exactly. And by “just thinking” I mean five minutes ago, so bear with me. Anyway, I was trying to conjure up a description of my personal style, but I kept coming up with random things I like and how those things change on a daily basis. Then I realized that the factor determining my personal style is that it’s dynamic – never static. I like what I like based on my mood, how I feel about myself at the moment. Heck, even the weather affects my fashion choices.

And I kind of like that. You can say my style is completely undefined, but I think you’d be mistaken. I don’t change it based on what’s in for the season (red eye liner, Mary Kate Olsen’s last headwear debacle, neon anything, um, need I say more?), although sometimes I do give into crazy trends just ‘cause (Dear Legs, I’m really sorry for abusing you with those mid-calf leggings). More than anything, though, I’ve noticed that I use my style to bring out specific facets of my personality. Some days I just really like to vamp it up to achieve just the right amount of trampiness. You know, big, wild hair (the higher the hair, the closer to God, right J?), ridiculously impractical heels, borderline drag queen eye makeup, hoops resembling bracelets, and the strategic mysterious smirk. Nothing offensively whorish or tacky (although I have been known to sport the huge leopard print earrings, but that was more for the kitsch/intentional bowling alley queen effect), but just enough to say ‘I’m not taking myself incredibly seriously right now.’

As much as I love the trash-tastic look, I have also been to know to completely veer off and strive to look like a completely Charlotte-esque WASP princess. Or WASC, I guess, since I’m Catholic. But whatev, details, details. I have the pearls, preppy attire, long straight hair, tortoise shell headband, and, when I decide to call it forth, the posture. Whenever I really start dreaming of living on the East Coast, I try to prove I belong there with my wardrobe. (I love you, Chicago, I do! But I need a change of scenery! I long to leave the Midwest, just for a little bit! You understand, right? Right?)

Then, completely diverging from either of these identities, I play up my earthy-girl side with something I like to call “showered hippie.” This is when I really feel like strolling to the farmer’s market and walking barefoot in the grass and doing yoga. I mean, I do these things sometimes, but it’s a little hard to commit fully when it snows half the year here, I don’t have much of an attention span to calm down for a full hour unless I’m asleep, and I can’t even imagine what kinds of gross things are all over the ground in the Big City. Anyway, when this mood strikes me, it’s obvious to everyone who knows me. I let my hair air dry (and hairbrush? What’s that?), refuse to wear socks, dig out my flowy boho shirts and dresses, throw one of my million headscarves on, and walk in the sunshine, smiling at life like I just left Woodstock. The jury is still out on whether I look serene or sky-high when I’m in this look-at-me-I-am-so-at-peace-with-life state.

While I do love showing off the multiple style personalities, and I think that the main thing defining my style is its ever-changing nature, there is one other thing that sets it apart. No matter what I’m wearing, I probably am only wearing it because I want to. Not because you think it looks cute or because you said the Express blue zebra dress with long sleeves makes me look like a stripper (love you, T, but I can SO rock the animal prints –AND make them look classy!) I will also sport green eye shadow without looking like a scary 80s flashback, because it can be done if you play around with it. You can tell me what you like, but in the end, I probably will wear my favorite dress or a necklace that could double as a weapon. (By all means, though, if I try on a jumpsuit or something equally horrific that makes me look like I’m auditioning for an Aretha Franklin autobiographical film, go ahead and tell me.) I take risks based on what I like, not really because Vogue told me that this was THE trend to try this month. Although, I must say, I love entirely editorial and impractical clothing – at least in theory. I will wear the men’s wear vest because I think I can throw on a little extra black liner and some major (I idolize the Posh) heels and work the edgy girl look. I will not wear high-waisted pants because my legs are long enough and my torso plenty short, thanks. And half the time, no matter what style I’m sporting, I will probably be wearing my silver cuff that reminds me of Wonder Woman. Just because I really like it. And that is definition enough personal style enough for me.