Today I am thankful for a few quiet moments while everyone else is occupied. I have spent two very nice days with Daniel and Milo on a short trip out of town. It was lovely, really, but also exhausting. We are three intense personalities (I’m probably the least intense of all of us), and I need a few minutes each day when I am mentally and physically out of reach.
So no sooner did I decry Eileen Fisher then Sal at Already Pretty, who is a good deal younger than me, wrote a post about how fabulous they are. I admit to having a soft spot for their ad campaign, especially these two pictures
I’d like to figure out a new silhouette. My stylish sister-in-law keeps telling me I need to wear drapey, flowing things on top (just like she does! It’s not a coincidence!). Perhaps I’d also like to be a drop-dead gorgeous Asian model. I can dream, can’t I?
And here’s what I’m not saying in this post. I knew this man slightly several years ago. I don’t think highly of him (does that mean I think lowly of him?). And reading his perfectly nice story about his perfectly nice second baby made me sad. It smudged my otherwise happy long weekend with Milo and Daniel. It stole my sleep. I am sick of being ambush-able. I am sick of being small about other people’s happinesses. I hate hitting the pothole of my not-best, not-generous self. I hate being distracted from the people I love by this absence. When will it be over? Oh, never.
Another Door 
I see the appeal of the ad. However,I am not that chic asian lady. On me, I fear, I would look like I bought something at Chico’s. And, I am aware, the copy about where it has been featured also gets to me. I may not ever get published in the New Yorker but I can wear something featured in the New Yorker. They, it seems, know my soft spots.
I just cried watching International House Hunters. Why? Because this darling Greek family was buying a vacation home where they could be with their darling brood of Greek children and grandchildren. That, if we hadn’t have been denied reproductive skills, could have be me and my weasel and our children with Greek sounding names. So I watched and I cried imagine my childless old age. I am sick of others happiness making me sad. I fear I will never stop crying about this. It is, I think, part of the intractability of infertility.
Hugs to you, lovely!
xoxo
Oh, if I could say anything to make it feel better, I would. I’d also say it to myself.
Reaching for the shallows here and playing devil’s advocate, I’ll say that Belette is right to worry about Chico-i-zation–EF can be so bland and dowdy if one is not a d-dg Asian sm. (Actually, I think I wrecked a potential friendship once with a model who had posed in their ads, b/c I told her the only people I knew who wore it were 50-something professor-types. I foolishly thought she’d have critical distance from the tools of her trade but must have sounded like I was insulting how she looked.) To me, EF is for women who have given up on distinctive, signature styles of their own–you mentioned yesterday that maybe you wouldn’t mind blending in a bit. But EF is the beige couch of clothing–it might not detract from a room, but it adds nothing. (Full disclosure: at least half my wardrobe is from the Anthropologie sale rack, and the rest is H&M–that’s all I got.) I’m not big on prints, but in all of Sal’s post, there is nothing but solid, solid, solid–without a stylist and exactly the right accessories, this becomes merely drab.
Fashion screed over.
Sorry the styles section article was an electrified rail–I’m tired of hearing how technology changes our lives so much and thought this article added nothing new. The poor kid at the dentist has not been viewed by his peers; I certainly wouldn’t recognize him on the street; his life is not really f*c*ed by this… so I’m blaming uninspired journalism for the trapdoor beneath you. I wonder if this susceptibility to ambush fades over time, or, like the death of a loved one, always feels fresh. I have no idea, but I do feel for you…for you both, Belette. I know so many women without children, as I said before, and I’ve tended to presume (yes, be presumptuous) that it was a choice. I’m getting a whole new dimension here to think about and be aware of.
I do so love when you apply literary criticism to other realms! H&M doesn’t fit me well, but I may try Zara. And Anthro doesn’t ever look quite right on me. although I always hope it will. I feel most comfortable in things that are more streamlined. I need a strict cut, but a crazy print, maybe.
Had a thought this morning while passing a woman of a certain age who had solid tights and leopard-print peep-toes on: the only time I’ve tried the tights/peeps look, and I think it did work, was with black tights and black shoes. Could be a gateway.
Not sure H&M fits anyone *well,* though occasionally I land on pieces that really work. I think of you looking best in interesting/varied textures, streamlined, like you say. Definitely tights.