I think I look all right, but people seem to think I’m on an eternal episode of What Not to Wear. I attract fashion advice, and I don’t really know why. Do I look that strange?
Sometimes, it’s entertaining. One friend who has given me a lot of fashion pointers over the years is a five-foot-tall New Yorker. The first piece of fashion advice she ever gave me was to wear boot cut jeans. This was in the nineties, and as a woman of 5’11”, I was at the mercy of tall jean manufacturers when it came to the arrival of the boot cuts. I promised her I’d give them a try just as soon as I could. Tall boot cuts arrived on the market, I put them on, my friend was right, and she earned lifetime rights to telling me how to dress. She’s a coach, so she tells a lot of people how they should be doing things. It’s almost cost her friends before (I am thinking of the Great Male Eyebrow Waxing Debacle), but it will never cost her my friendship because I understand that this is just how she is.
Over the years, she’s sent me links to some strange clothing choices for a woman who lives in the home city of Columbia Sportswear and Keens. “These would look great on you,” she said of sequin-and-embroidery embellished jeans with velvet tuxedo stripes down the legs. “I wear these, they are so fun,” she said of crotcheted beaded hip scarves. The height thing has never made sense to her. She has sent me links to tie-dyed maxis that would be midis on me, and shorter dresses that would be tunics. She can’t quite figure out the difference between the wardrobe of a Lilliputian New Yorker and Brobdinagian Portlander.
Things finally came to a head when we met in Vegas years ago. I will never fit in, in Vegas. I’ll always be that lady with the brown glasses and the clogs in Vegas, that lady from who looks like she’s from Oregon. I’m never going to have Vegas clothes. On that trip, she didn’t bug me about my heathered green v-neck tee or my Danskos, but she did keep pestering me to try on a Spanx bra that she loved. “You can sleep in it!” she told me. I don’t sleep in a bra. “But you could!” But I won’t.
She kept on, I kept demurring. The straps don’t adjust, I kept telling her. But she is 4’11” and I am 5’11” and she’d never had to consider the role of adjustable bra straps in the life of a woman my height. Finally, to make her stop, I did the wrong thing. I agreed to try it on. I went into the bathroom. “You have to put it on from the bottom up!” she called through the door, “Over your hips!” Nothing that fits around the top of me is going to slide up over the bottom of me, that’s just not how I’m built. So I put it on over my head and pulled it down. It fit nicely around my chest–right at armpit level.
The trying on of this bra marked a turning point in my life. I stood there with that bra in my armpits and realized that a big part of the problem was my own. I was a partner in this because I was always trying to find a polite way to turn away fashion suggestions, like pleading cost or lifestyle or length issues. I was tired of making my point that way. I should have just said that I like a bra with hooks and underwires and cups and stretchy adjustable straps, and so she should just leave me alone about any bra I could (shudder) sleep in.
I decided to stop ignoring and skirting fashion advice. I decided to start openly rejecting it.
This attitude helped me with another friend who really, really hated my hair. It’s long and I don’t color it. This friend, who works with me, found my hair horrifying. She started pestering me about it in my forties. She was devoted to getting me a smart, short, stylish haircut that I could keep properly dyed and, well, under control. She would say, quite firmly, “Don’t you want a cute short haircut? You’d look so much better with short hair, Karen.”
I am a tall, sturdy woman with strong facial features. I would look like kd lang if I had short hair. And though I admire kd and enjoy her music, I do not think her style conveys what I want to say about myself. I would express this. My friend wouldn’t let it die. She thought she was doing me a favor. I guess she thought that I didn’t know my hair was long, and I didn’t know it was going grey, so she had to keep telling me. Otherwise, you see, I wouldn’t be aware of what’s on my head. You know, like the people who tell you that you’re fat because the combined input of the scale, the mirror and the waistband of your jeans isn’t enough, you need helpful friends to let you know you’re getting to be quite a porker.
Discussions with this friend culminated in a heated coffee break discussion in which she said, “So, you have long grey hair that makes you look like a witch. Do you want to look like a witch?” I remember saying, quite emphatically, “Yes, yes I do. I want to look like a witch. That’s exactly what I’m going for, so please leave me alone about my hair.”
For the record, my New York friend wanted me to leave my hair long, but dye it dark brown while leaving two silver stripes at the front “like that chick on What Not to Wear.” This would have been a little too Elvira for me, and I told her that. Several times.
Everybody has opinions. No one seems to have considered that I look the way I look because I like it. I’m my own personal expert at handling the particular challenges of my chthonic proportions. I’m dressing pretty well within the bounds of good taste and poverty. I make missteps once in a while, but every single thing about my appearance is thought out and done on purpose. No one needs to tell me what to wear, or what not to wear.
I blame a lot of this on the show What Not to Wear. While it was on, everyone in America now considered him or herself an expert on what other people should wear because of that show, which I used to watch. It was initially hilarious to see the women on that show with their fashion missteps. We cringed at the breast-baring Ren Faire dresses, the quilted jackets made of hemp and misguided artistic intentions, the tiny club dresses that revealed personal grooming habits.
Yes, there were the overwhelmed moms who hated their post-pregnancy bodies so much that they were simply swathing themselves with whatever fabric was at hand, but they were not the majority on that show. Most of the women who were secretly filmed, humiliated at screenings, and bullied by their friends and families into going on the show, actually adored their clothes. They were wearing just what they wanted to, in just the way they wanted to wear it.
If you’re an astrophysicist and what you want to wear is a wolf t-shirt, a denim miniskirt and some bowling shoes, well, have at it, I say. Wear that, rather than the Clinton and Stacy Outfit They All Got. Which was this: a tailored jacket over a flowy blouse over wide leg trouser jeans, and heels. There were slight variations, but this was the look that Clinton and Stacy really believed in it, for every woman, all women, all shapes and sizes, this was IT.
Now, if you love this outfit, then have at it. Wear it every day. But I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to wear that outfit! You can wear what you want. Let your freak flag fly.
The funny thing is, Stacy herself has repudiated this whole wardrobe homogeny. Here’s an article called “How I Moved on From My What Not To Wear Style.” In it, she says:
When I look back, I realize the style I had while I was on What Not to Wear — the pencil skirts and sheath dresses, the floral and ruffled tops — does not reflect who I am now. It reflects the television persona I gave up a long time ago. It no longer “fits.” (Pun intended.) I dress much more androgynously than I did when I was younger. Frilly, girly clothes don’t have enough gravitas for me. I like suits and leather and jumpsuits, and I almost exclusively wear pants. I am pretty sure this change in my style happened quite naturally. But there have been times when I’ve worried this change won’t sit well with fans of my old look, that I’ve ostracized them, that I am no longer playing by the rules I prescribed to countless women over the course of the show. More than anything, I don’t want people who have believed in my advice over the years to feel I’ve betrayed them by no longer “looking the part.” The fact is, my public persona was only ever “part” of who I was to begin with. The Stacy I was in 2002 cannot possibly be the Stacy of 2016. Age is part of time, and does in fact change things.
So Stacy herself has turned over a fashion leaf, and now she looks like this.
Do you love it? I love it. It has nothing to do with me or my style, but I love it on her. If you don’t, well, go put on those wide leg jeans. Me, I’ll just be over here, brushing out my witch hair.
Introverts are rarely bored when they are alone, and often bored when in the company of other people. What interests an introvert are the contents of her own head; ideas, memories, mildly obsessional interests and crooked musings. This is why introverts all have blogs.
Introverts invented blogging. Extroverts ruined it.
The introvert has grown up hearing that she is ”aloof,” ”uncaring,” ”self-absorbed.” She is none of these and all of these. She probably bridles at being called self-absorbed, because she doesn’t think of herself as all that interesting. She doesn’t think anyone else is all that interesting, either.
Introverts greet the friendship advances of emotional extroverts, who initially bring a lot of caring and fun to the table, with confusion and some relief. These friendships can feel to the introvert like inclusion in a private, wonderful club.
The lack of emotional displays on the part of the introvert are too often interpreted by the emotional extrovert as an “all-clear” to stage some histrionics. The first time this happens, the introvert will probably fuss around and try to help. This is, after all, human nature, and polite. This gives the impression that the introvert is a good listener. The introvert actually is a good listener. She is listening to everything you say. She is also, unfortunately, listening to everything you don’t say.
Introverts are not nearly as patient as they have to be.
Eventually, if you talk about the same problem too often, the introvert will start a slight emotional withdrawal, marked by practical statements concerning your situation. The extrovert wants supportive statements. She is always confused by the emotional pragmatism of the introvert. The introvert is always confused by the conversion of friendship from spending time together based on mutual interests and enjoyment into a completely different kind of arrangement based on the introvert’s always “being there” for the extrovert.
There is possibly no one on the planet less interested in your pain than a bored introvert.
When an emotional extrovert feels inadequately heard, she might be spurred on to greater levels of agony in order to elicit a proper emotional response. This is a tactical error. While the tantrum takes place, the introvert quietly moves herself out of range. The extrovert’s pain become something happening elsewhere, an overemotional puppet show on a faraway stage.
Introverts are very good at being quiet.
What does it mean when an introvert is quiet? It depends on the introvert. Most of the time, when an introvert is quiet, it means she’s thinking. If she were interested in sharing what she was thinking, she’d probably have told you.
Occasionally, a quiet introvert is wondering what your deal is. This doesn’t mean she’s angry. If an introvert is mad at you, you’ll know. In fact, it might be scary, it will be so clear. Do not interpret silence or preoccupation as anger, unless it is also accompanied by a visible exercise of self-control. An introvert in this state is a ticking bomb and best avoided at all costs. Whatever you do, don’t try to ”talk about it.” Do not expect her to ”share,” do NOT ask what you’ve done wrong. Why? Because she will tell you.
Sometimes, when an introvert is being quiet, she’s simply thinking about how much she wishes you would be quiet. At other times, a quiet introvert is quietly studying all the exits. She is studying them in a metaphorical and a literal sense. She is also considering a tunnel. Whatever it takes.
If you are an extrovert and you notice a certain silence or wandering setting in with an introverted friend, you might think the answer is to amp up your emotional needs. I can tell you this with 100 percent conviction: whatever the answer is, it does not involve amping up your emotional needs.
Introverts enjoy quiet spaces. Extroverts fill those spaces.
Sometimes, while an emotional extrovert is rehashing an emotional event in which she perceives herself as the victim, the introvert will say something that seems uncaring. Do not ask for clarification. The explanation is bound to be even more harsh than the original comment.
Withdrawal signals what those in the introversion trade call a “sea change.” That means the introvert’s desire to be polite has been overridden by the introvert’s desire to not hear any more about the situation under scrutiny. Since the extrovert has never doubted that her emotional distress is top number one priority for the introvert, this withdrawal can occasion feelings of betrayal. Please do not take this withdrawal personally. It is simply that the introvert can no longer stand you and doesn’t know how to politely say so.
The introvert likes hugs when she’s happy, not when she’s sad.
Because the introvert is so emotionally self-contained, she is often mistaken for a person who has no emotional needs of her own. This is a misconception. The introvert has many emotional needs of her own, most of which involve you not bothering her with your emotional needs.
When an extrovert needs emotional tending, she will burst into hysterical tears and hyperventilate. When an introvert needs emotional attention, she will ask if you have any antacid. Other signs an introvert is in deep emotional distress include arriving with a bottle of wine and stressing over a misplaced back issue of the New Yorker that had a feature she wanted you to read.
Introverts almost always respond to life’s biggest blows with silent, stoic endurance. And they really, really wonder why extroverts don’t react the same way.
Once in a while, a friendship between an introvert and an extrovert survives their mutual disillusionment. It helps to live in different states. If you are an emotional extrovert who somehow has managed to remain friends with an introvert and she’s been through hell and she finally does want to talk, she does not want what she says about her life to make you cry. She also does not want you to hug her. She wishes you would knock that off and just listen. This is not about you.
Introverts can get lonely, believe it or not. This happens partly because introverts are often quietly slipping out of friendships with needy people as soon as possible, and partly because introverts are sometimes so self-contained that they forget to make friends in the first place.
Introverts have a built-in breed recognition. They are like wolves. Their packs are invisible.
Watching two introverts make friends is kind of sweet. It is a very quiet, gradual process, marked by awkwardness and the equivalent of parallel play in toddlers. When these friendship bonds finally cement, they are generally unbreakable.
A confirmed friendship between two introverts has the constancy of pi. Neither asks for much, but both would give anything. These friendships endure geographical separation and long periods of no contact. They generally take up right where they left off.
If an introvert asks you to return a book, you are dead to her.