MAXI SKIRT MINI DRAMA

 

There’s a fabulous scene in the TV show Better Things, one of the best and most honest portrayals of an aging mom ever - where the fiftysomething Sam is tearing through her closet trying to find something to wear and nothing fits. She wriggles into her go-to jeans, forces on her patchwork leather jacket, unsuccessfully buttons up a silky blouse - none of it works as she’s sweating profusely and wondering What the f*ck happened to all my clothes?  

These days, it feels like that scene plays out in my own closet every time I get ready to go anywhere. 

So when my friend’s book party invitation arrived - an early evening summer cocktail party at Butterfly Lounge at the Sixty Soho hotel celebrating the launch of her essay collection, Tough Titties - I had two responses: Yes! and Ugh - what am I going to wear? 

Not to brag or boast or beat a dead clotheshorse but until recently finding the right outfit had always been my sartorial superpower. My closet is a treasure trove of styling triumphs: a red crepe Lisa Perry-for-Barneys trapeze dress I found last minute and on sale for a dinner at the TWA Hotel (very ‘60s stewardess!); a crinkled metallic silver Topshop mini dress for a Warhol opening at MoMA (sooo Factory Girl!); an $8.99 yellow vinyl clutch from Target worn with a black satin shift to New York Fashion Week. Legendary street style photographer Bill Cunningham spotted my cheap and chic bag and shot it for a New York Times Sunday Styles feature on the season’s colorful accessories.   

So what to wear to a book party? Should have been a softball question. Literally Google Patty Nasey and a photo of me at a downtown book party pops up (wearing a fabulous dress from Le Shack by Tracy Feith.)

But the 2020s ushered in a perfect storm of personal style challenges: the new “covid casual” dress code made it acceptable to wear athleisure to Broadway shows and cashmere hoodies to fancy restaurants and pajamas to the supermarket and sneakers, well, everywhere. Plus the onset of menopause completely changed my body (hello Eileen Fisher, I finally get it!)  And I was feeling especially self-conscious about what to wear to the Tough Titties party because I would be seeing a lot of former magazine colleagues, many of whom I hadn’t seen since before the Pandemic, before I let my hair go gray and before middle age took away my waistline and collagen. I wanted an outfit that said, I’m retired but not tired;  I’m trying, but not too hard; I may be out of the game but I can still play. 

I knew I had to wear my new denim maxi skirt.  

Egged on by breathless editors and influencers touting the denim maxi as a “must-have” item for the season, I impulsively bought one at Zara but had yet to wear it. I scrolled through Instagram and Vogue’s email newsletters for ideas on how to style it and decided to pair my long jean skirt with a plain white tee under a lightweight black sweatshirt, and wear my black and white Adidas Sambas. Casual, comfortable,  on-trend and youthful. The perfect look for a downtown book party!  

Or so I thought. 

The moment I arrived at the Butterfly Lounge, it was instantly clear that BarbieCore maximalism was the vibe, NOT the Torah Teacher aesthetic I was rocking. Everyone had apparently dressed to match the name of the venue. Butterflies everywhere!  It looked like the vivarium at The American Museum of Natural History. Women towered over me like tall flowers dressed in bright colors, cheerful patterns and tropical florals, with statement jewelry, and bold makeup.  It felt as hot as the vivarium too, and I was wrapped in a cocoon of denim. The influencers and editors pushing this essential wardrobe item failed to mention that a denim maxi is very heavy.  For a woman of a certain age who is still prone to hot flashes it was the worst possible item to wear to a crowded event.  It was a dress code red!  

I pushed toward the bar, feeling like a frumpy fiftysomething in a sea of Sex-and-the-City somethings, squeezing past a blonde glamazon wearing a pink sequined pantsuit with a shimmery pussy bow blouse and metallic gold stilettos and scooting by a willowy tan brunette in a jewel-tone one-shoulder satin jumpsuit with coordinating lipstick, earrings and nail polish. As I made my way through the crowd I knew I’d made a major miscalculation. It looked like a Bravo party for the Real Housewives. Only I was the only real housewife at the party. 

The bartender gave me a much-needed glass of ice cold water and I found a seat in the corner where I could cool down, hide out and flip through a copy of my friend’s book.  The good news about being an older woman at a younger person’s party is that nobody was looking at me or gave a shit about what I was wearing. The bad news is, well, nobody was looking at me or gave a shit about what I was wearing. I spotted one of my former colleagues (who is my age and, dammit, she was wearing an adorable flirty, floral dress and patent platform sandals - how did I miss the memo?!!) She said I looked cute but I didn’t believe her. I stayed for the toasts and by the time I said goodbye I was a sweaty, uncomfortable mess. As soon as I got home, I found the receipt for the denim maxi skirt and realized I still had two days to return it for a full refund. Yes I had worn it but I would definitely never wear it again.  Thank you, Zara!

I want to blame the maxi skirt for my mini drama. But I know my insecurity about aging is the real issue, this irrational fear that someone is going to think I’ve “let myself go” - whatever that means. Perhaps the joy of being middle aged is the thing I’ve feared the most - blending into the background and not being on display.  So what if I had a slight sartorial slip-up, a mild wardrobe misfire, a minor fashion emergency.  As my friend would say, Tough Titties! 

Farewell, Spaz

This summer I will travel 3,000 miles across the country and four decades back in time for my 40-year high school reunion. In the past few weeks since the date was announced my phone has been blowing up - Friend requests from former homecoming queens who are now grandmas (eek!); ‘80s nostalgia memes and Gen X GIFs; shared Spotify playlists (so much Journey!); Throwback Thursday prom pix and messages and comments from classmates calling me by my high school nickname: “Spaz.” 

In the fall of 1979, when I entered 9th grade, calling someone (me) “Spaz” was not considered bullying. Nor would it get a student suspended or an artist canceled. On the contrary, during my high school years “Spaz” and dorks in general were having a moment. On Saturday Night Live, Bill Murray and Gilda Radner played nerd couple Lisa Loopner and Todd DiLaMuca for three seasons with an occasional guest appearance by Steve Martin as “Chaz the Spaz.” The hit summer-camp comedy Meatballs featured a counselor named Spaz (Jack Blum). SJP played the adorkable Patty (!!!) on the TV show Square Pegs and a year later Revenge of the Nerds hit the big screen. 

So when I was anointed Spaz my freshman year, I laughed along, happy not to be invisible. In fact, I leaned into the moniker - the nickname became my identity.  I should note that I was not (and am not) a person with a disability. I was just a really gawky teen in the midst of an awkward pubescent growth spurt. I bounced around campus, my disproportionately long, skinny arms flapping chaotically like one of those inflatable men outside a car dealership. One of the youngest in my grade, I still had braces, a training bra and a guileless enthusiasm that was underappreciated by the too-cool-for-school girls who smoked in the bathroom and threatened to flush my hair down the toilet (a “swirlie.”)  Since I was clearly too geeky to be a cheerleader, I tried out to be the school mascot and won. I proudly wore my Miner costume on game days and took home the “Best Mascot” trophy at the league championships defeating the Placer Hillman, the Roseville Tiger, and the Elk Grove Thundering Herd!  I earned my varsity letter in Badminton, the ideal lightweight sport for a nerd like me with its wispy rackets and feathered shuttlecocks. I landed a part as a “Screaming Teen” in the school play, Bye Bye Birdie, where I played a slightly exaggerated version of myself. My best buddy and prom date Steve “Bunns'' Bunnell and I branded ourselves “Spaz ‘n Bunns” (precursor to Bennifer or Brangelina) and when I ran for class president senior year, my campaign slogan was SPAZ for PREZ. 

Forty years later, I cringe as I reflect on this derogatory sobriquet, wondering how we tossed around an ableist slur so casually. Feels like a Sixteen Candles situation - fun and funny then; horrifying and offensive now.  In December, The New York Times published a reader quiz called “You Can’t Say That (Or Can You?)” A whopping 72% of respondents said they would not use the word Spaz. And last summer Beyoncé and Lizzo made headlines when they each removed Spaz from their songs calling it a “harmful" word.”  Nevertheless, my nickname persists.

As the reunion approaches, I ask myself WWJD? (No, not Jesus…Janet Jackson!)  I'm pretty sure she’d tell her classmates, “No, my first name ain't Spaz. It's Patty... Ms. Nasey, if you're nasty.”  So on August 12 (and in the intervening days) that’s what I'll do. And it’s about damn time.