Whenever you begin to put together a new look, start with what you already know about your style. In my case, wanting to join in the pattern-mixing fun, I have to take the usual small-figured road, and rely on a single color or color families. Sort of Dries van Noten meets Miuccia Prada, and everybody quiets down. My walking commute dictates the shoe choice. Denied wood-soled platform sandals, I might compensate with oxfords in an interesting shade.

And the bag, oh the bag. A new find. Go look right now at Hester van Eeghen’s site and tell me you don’t find at least three to covet. Not cheap, but half of the cost of a high-end design bag and three times the style of most.

Would this outfit actually work for the office? Doesn’t matter at this stage. Dreaming is the operative term, imagination the territory.

Once the concept is in place, one has to noodle a bit. Think, hmmm, fuller patterned skirt, contrasting but similar patterned top, oxfords. Watch to see how often something similar shows up in magazines and online. Checking to see where pieces of type might be available. At what cost.

Then you have to go try things on. There’s just no way to launch into a new uniform from online shopping. Too frustrating. Look for the hardest to get/most difficult to pull off piece first. In this case, the skirt. For example, I know I can wear woven short-sleeved shirts and oxfords. I’ve done it for years. What I’m looking for is a skirt that substitutes for jeans. Comfortable in the heat. With a pattern.

And that’s the hunt upon which I’ll embark. Even if an outfit eludes you, pursuit can be lot of fun.

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Many of us have a three-day weekend here in the USA. Everyone who celebrates Christmas has finally, finally, dug out of the holiday task-accomplishment hole. A new Lunar New Year has begun, and the Dragon is upon us. Breathe. Without flames.

I, personally, will be wearing the heck out of some flannel pyjamas, consuming far too much tea, and reacquainting myself with the kitchen. Did you know that I have a stove? I do!

One cannot let those critical cooking, gardening, and pyjama-ing skills decay altogether. Leeks and doughty rosebushes to the rescue. I wish everyone a wonderful weekend, long or regular, with glimpses of blue sky. I am a lucky person to have readers like you.

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The woman makes me laugh out loud. She’s a great writer, and her sensibilities tickle my fancy. It’s not a case of life alignment, she’s pretty young, and smack dab in the middle of raising three little boys. She just makes me laugh. See what you think. Amalah. From this most recent post, I keep repeating, “Might be offensive to minutes, hahahahahaha.”

Have a wonderful weekend.

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October, 2011. These pants were, indeed, too big.

Blogging has taught me so much. About confession, about persistence, about the Hail Mary of creative writing.

And that I wear my pants too big.

Perhaps I should say, wore my pants too big, in the past tense. Because I recently took 8 pairs to the tailor, and started buying a size smaller than ever before. This isn’t very interesting, in and of itself. Headline. “Breaking News: Middle-Aged Californian Woman Wears Pants That Fit.”

But it was kind of interesting to deconstruct. Because maybe you too may have a quirky or unconscious sartorial habit, one that does not serve you well. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to leave bad choices behind without a little analysis.

Turns out my baggy pant syndrome had two root causes.

Comfort And Discomfort

In my 30s I developed terrible sciatica. I spent a year, when my son was 2, lying on the floor because sitting hurt too much. You can imagine this went over really well in business meetings. In those days, pant waistlines happened to cross, directly, the L5 vertebra that was causing my problem. Impinged nerves hurt even more when bound. A lesson for life.

But nowadays we can wear our pants at the hip. As it turns out, if my pants are tight at the hip, they leave my unquiet nerves in peace. Even so, not until the young J. Crew saleswoman cajoled me on the open floor, “Yes, really, that’s how they should fit,” could I give up my bag and sag.

December, 2011. I'm cold, but my pants fit

Body Image

The other cause of my baggy pant syndrome was more difficult to tease out. I spent some time thinking about the issue. As one does, right? Wearing flares, one day, I stared into the full body mirror in the bathroom at work. Good thing nobody came in. Why, I wondered, even when I had found a way around vertebral punishment, did I prefer this silhouette? Why choose volume when all feedback suggests sleek?

It dawned on me that I was trying to balance my shoulders. I have very broad shoulders, something discovered when I was measured for a college theatrical getup. “Oh look,” called out the costumer, “You have the biggest shoulders of everyone except the tennis captain.”

On the one hand, baggy pants encourage proportional harmony. But my choices weren’t primarily about aesthetics. In my heart I have always felt that my bulky shoulders make me look like a man. Alternatively, and this is a question beyond the scope of my particular skills, I felt masculine and pegged that feeling to my skeleton. Who knows?

When I tell you I have always felt bulky, I don’t mean fat. Not since my days of graduating from college, coping with anxiety via an eating disorder, have I felt fat. But I feel sturdy. Not feminine, not girlish. While I did feel like a woman, especially after I had my babies, in my set of cultural aesthetics womanly is not the same as feminine.

So when I wear loose, or wide-legged, pants, I feel just feminine enough. The implications stretch out across a blue horizon. We will  gesture in their direction, for now, and imagine orange light at sunset.

It is appropriate to ask, “Why no dresses then?” We’re taxing my capacity for self-understanding, but it’s hard to wear comfortable shoes with dresses. And I suppose I have a secret fear that my skirts will blow up over my head. What? You never worry about that?

So I could set out on a therapeutic course. Or, I could buy smaller trousers. Which is the kind of solution Sturdy Gals are apt to prefer. I made the tailor’s day, 8 pairs of pants draped over my arm, shoes in a paper bag for heel height, 30 years of body image trailing disconsolately behind.

Do you have a sartorial quirk, with buried roots?

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To everyone who entered, thank you, thank you, thank you. I love to read what perfumes people wear, and why. Your comments have inspired me to read some books on the history of ornamental scent, and to report back, if interesting facts and theories are to be found.

To Tommy Hilfiger, the brand, thank you very much. It’s such a privilege to give presents. May your name always be spelled correctly. Hilfiger, one G.

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So I was terribly pleased to contrive this little trick.

I took a page from the man’s tradition of shirt and tie. Sweep of color across the chest, pattern and contrast around the neck.

Translating to business casual for women, “Shirt” is pronounced “Cashmere V-Neck,” and “Tie,” “Collared Buttonfront.” We also say “Golf” as “Blah blah blah,” but that’s another matter.

When I started this new job, I tottered bravely off in a black v-neck with purple gingham underneath. Little did I know I had begun as I would continue.

Most recently, I acquired the Anna Mashburn orange striper, above, and a paisley confection from Liberty of London. I wear them both under navy. What sartorial adventures a sturdy shade makes possible. I wouldn’t wear navy with blue seersucker, however. Even I avoid dressing Too Sedately.

Then, when so much exuberance tasks my High WASP soul, I button it all up, literally, and figuratively, with gray stripes under black.

We send signals at work, like it or not. May as well enjoy the flags.

Sweaters: Purple Brora, navy Land’s End, Black-something-or-other
Shirts: J. Crew Liberty print, J. Crew seersucker, J. Crew gingham, Anna Mashburn orange, Liberty of London paisley, Charles Tyrwhitt gray stripes.

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1. Age. We’ve established some arbitrary legal definitions, here in the US. Does anyone think that’s the answer? No? I didn’t think so.
2. Biological capabilities. Once one can have children? Uh, clearly not. Lift 250 lbs at the gym? Please excuse the silliness, we’re illustrating a point. Insufficient.
3. Events. Graduation from school, marriage, birth of a child, taking on a mortgage? Still insufficient.
4. The capability to sustain a host of such events? Getting closer.

If positive identifiers cannot solve the problem, let’s try reductionism. Do we know what an adult is not? I think the only unquestionable statement we can make is that an adult is not a child. So what is a child?

1. A young person. But we’ve established that leaving youth behind doesn’t guarantee full adulthood.
2. A child is someone who cannot fend for themselves.

Yes. Adults must be able to fend for themselves. Eat, sleep, pay bills, on their own. Sufficient definition? Still, to me, no. Human society has evolved beyond sufficiency, beyond just staying alive, and so has our concept of adulthood.

My son was talking to me the other day about a philosophy class he’s considering. He explained that in the last century, under the stress of science, philosophy separated into two schools. The Analytic and the Continental. Right then and there you know that one involves kippered herring and the other, chocolate croissants. Unsurprisingly, the path to meaning tends toward chocolate.

In essence, the Continental idea, which I believe to be true, is that we get at real understanding about people via narrative and emotion. That neither binary logic nor reductive reasoning do the trick.

The real question then. When do we feel like adults? Whatever your own voice says is probably right.

Myself, I feel like an adult when I’m crackling with perspective. Perspective in the artist’s sense, i.e. creating distance to intensify reality. I think of those moments when I rise above immediate events and see against the context of time. Or put myself in someone else’s shoes, and know how they feel.

Or, particularly, when I understand my own self with perspective. If adults were wizards, we’d chant Maybe Yes Maybe No as our Spell of Spells. In an understanding of choice, you take the first step towards responsibility. That’s another aspect of my own definition of growing up.

Here’s what I believe, most of all. Adulthood entails demystifying personal necessity. Inevitably, the needs of others surface in the cleared space. I feel most like an adult when I care for others as though they were in some way my own child.

But this is just my story, in the morning, with tea and thoughts of chocolate. Yours may be different – no one is apt to tell it but you.

Thank you @alilnapaz and @katiethecoxie for asking. As always, visit Delia for more thoughtful, long-running meditations on adulthood.

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Tommy Hilfiger was born on March 24th, 1951 – most likely with the real name of Thomas Jacob Hilfiger. On February 9, 2012, he (to be more precise, his exceptionally civil and personable PR rep) offered a giveaway to the readers of Privilege.

We cannot, however, give away a perfume called “Eau de Prep,” and the accompanying stash of “preppy” goods, without a little deconstruction. We have to ask ourselves, what IS “Prep?” We have to ask ourselves, “Is Tommy Hilfiger the brand, “Prep?” Are these giveaway goods, “Prep?” And, most importantly, what on earth does “Eau de Prep” smell like?

Lacrosse socks?

I began writing Privilege, almost 3 years ago, partly in response to “Preppy” blogs. I wrote in a state of high dudgeon. I thought people were misinterpreting my High WASP culture, marketing it widely and marketing it badly. Silly LPC.

The idea of “Prep” retains few traces of origin. It’s a construct now, nothing more, nothing less. Muffy Aldrich, at Daily Prep, is the only blog I’ve seen that reclaims “Preppy,” as originally coined. Susan at The Preppy Princess stays close. Otherwise, the idea has been remade with broad lifestyle strokes..

The powers that be have included plaid in the Preppy palette. My mother might find this bag “good-looking,” The plasticized canvas is not quite up to snuff, but if Louis Vuitton can do it, who are we to call foul? At least the logo is discreet.

I myself am very fond of this notebook. I’d enter the giveaway for the pleasure of its fabric alone.

Somehow Greek key patterns (is that what they are called, in fact?), along with bamboo, also wound up in the Prep pile. To me, these say Palm Beach, but never mind.

The red watch might squeak in under the Prep tent flap. I do not believe that gray leopard earmuffs belong.  However, again, the task of definition is not mine.

Wait, the perfume. What about the perfume?

It smells like cooked sugar. Something a teen girl might quite like. The entire stash would make any teenage girl who identifies as “Prep” very happy. Since this is “Eau de Prep,” Tommy Girl, I think they’ve got it. By God I think they’ve got it.

Finally, we ask, like any good student returning to our introduction, is the Tommy Hilfiger brand “Prep?” I say, it is if it wants to be. Fly free, little construct. Ralph Lauren changed his name. I hope the Hilfiger brand never becomes Thomas Hill. I prefer the commercial idea of “Prep” when it has nothing to do with last names, parents, professions, ethnicities, or origin. Logically coherent, but sui generis. Punk, goth, prep, and done. Smelling sugarlike as we go.

This giveaway is open only to previous commentors and blog subscribers. While I applaud entrepreneurs who write highly entertaining comments in search of goods to resell on eBay, it would be rude to participate in brand erosion. After all, Tommy Hilfiger is giving us presents, and A Simple Thank You will suffice. They even said it was OK if I made fun of the perfume name. Now that is tolerance, and I applaud tolerance. Please write something, anything, about perfume you have either loved or loathed. Scent tends to bring out strong feelings in us all, brand or no brand, deconstructed or not.

Thank you Tommy H., for this abundant stash of loot. I opened the box like a kid. A copy of True Prep is also included, but you’ll just have to take my word on that.

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With an open slate, who would you invite? Only people who know how to banter, who understand that two conflicting opinions can both be true. They should not take themselves too seriously. While the rules of this exercise forbid inviting relatives or simple friends, I can’t comply. Dinner parties are best when some people meet for the first time as others interact with habitual camaraderie.

Here’s my list.

1. Dorothy Parker – I want to be there for the invention of a witticism, or perfect turn of phrase. “What fresh hell is this?” the favorite so far.
2. Nora Ephron – I want to hear the real stories of her journalist days and Hollywood nights. Also, compare necks.
3. Oscar Wilde – He needs another go-round, especially now that New York is on board. Had his only recourse been Iowa, not so sure.
4. Donald Trump – Yes. I’m serious. I loved him in the first Apprentice. Although he now focuses more on The Donald Show than on the real thing, I appreciate a good entrepreneur like nobody’s business. Or everybody’s. Seriously, can you imagine Oscar trying to understand Donald? He and Dot sparring over politics. Politely, of course? (Warning: His website is loud. Surprised?)
5. Me – You don’t think I would miss this, do you?
6. Significant Other – Without him nearby, I’m prone to vibrate at far too high a pitch
7. Old Friend – When I was married, we were friends with a glorious couple. Journalists, with a sense of humor and enormous personal warmth. They moved to Northern Europe, I got divorced, we lost touch. I’d bring them back, just for the dinner. They’d tell stories of their travels, and listen rapt to everyone else.
8. Old Friend’s husband – He is just as lovely as she
9. Father – Let’s just say that some famous couple or other, oh, Beyonce and Jayz and their baby, cancel at the last minute. Those things happen. Maybe they had to go sing for the President’s family. Who knows. In any case, I will pick up the phone and invite my father and his wife. Professors make good dinner party guests – when silence falls they can speak about something obscure, in that particular slow cadence, until inspiration strikes the others.
10. Father’s wife – Hold no party without an artist. If we were lucky, she’d take some photos of the evening. Facebook never had it so good.

And where would we assemble, you might wonder? I’d order up a rare warm Northern California night. We’d pull the dining table out on the slate patio. Snip back the hanging branches of the backyard Chinese elm, and hang a chandelier outdoors. Layer on textures in neutrals, eat from dignified china and silver, add a touch of silly with bright glassware. Oxymoronic design loosens tongues. As does exceptional wine.

What to wear? In California, we’re always pretty casual. The best tricks I know to dress up the natively informal are:

1. Rely on monochrome
2. Show your best skin
3. One piece of startlingly fancy jewelry
4. Wear sparkly shoes and a flattering nail polish
5. Keep those shoes on until you serve the food

And the food. Ah yes, the food. People should feel well-cared for. This is important. Everything prepared from scratch. Even the salsa, if you serve it. Even the blue cheese dressing.

You also want everyone to find something they’re happy to eat. So we’d need two main dishes, and a vegetarian side that can count as a main. Also, despite how fetching you look in a kitchen apron, best not to be stir-frying at the last minute. Advice I’ve ignored repeatedly – as evidenced by a pattern of burns on my right arm.

So let’s choose Potted Chicken from Jan’s recipe, and  Pork Adobo in the slow cooker. Vegetables as per the season. Even fancy people like simple food. Mashed potatoes, some with dairy, some without. You have to consider dietary restrictions. Salad made from front yard garden lettuce.

Focused on comfort for the main course, we’d go a little fanciful for dessert. It’s hard to ruin chocolate, and burned sugar smells delicious. So make brulé tiles in the shapes of letters, and anchor them in Boston cream filled cupcakes. Serve with a large bowl of ripe strawberries dressed in balsamic vinegar. Superfine and raw sugar on the table in a crystal bowl.

Sugar hidden in processed foods may be evil but out in the open it’s all right by me.

Then at the end of the night, bring out mid-century artifacts. Dinner mints, chocolates, and brandy. Watch as people’s faces light up. Realize, happily, that you’re going to be up past your bedtime. The privilege of grownups.

For more posts, and more dinner parties, click here.

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Google says there has been unusual activity in my account, and requires that I give them a phone number to get back in. Not an email account, mind you. I’d be fine with that. I’m set up for that. But I’m don’t want to give Google my phone numbers. Not my landline, and certainly not my mobile. It feels like life-tracking ransom. I suspect, perhaps wrongly, that this is part of their efforts to unseat the iPhone and make the Android platform more valuable.

And I wonder, will Google doom themselves with their own ubiquitous success? Other infrastructure industries were eventually regulated, railways, gas lines, telephone service. As a result, anyone who wants to record a phone call has to prove necessity. Google, however, can track us six ways from Sunday. I’ve assumed no evil intent; I’m not particularly Libertarian. But one wonders. “Fie upon the rascals!” I say. “Fie upon their bullying user interface!”

I am perhaps making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe it’s innocent. Maybe I’m just not seeing the button, or the link, to “If you don’t want to give us your phone number, here’s another security verification process.” I welcome anyone who can show me my mistake. I prefer a world without underhandedness of any sort.

In the meantime,  friends and family, in case you wonder why I’m not answering any Gmail, I’m holding out. Holding out with my old friend Yahoo. Who, although they might have wanted to own the world, just weren’t up to it. Capitalism is sometimes best in its more docile incarnation.

UPDATE: I sent a message into the deep depths of Google help, and received the following email in reply. <<We apologize for any inconvenience you may have experienced. The issue you described should now be resolved.>> Guess what. There are people in there. All is not lost. Happy Sunday to all.

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