The residents of Scottsdale and their obsession to look good 100% of the time fascinates anyone who visits here. Personally I want to know who has the time to keep up on the fashion trends, plump their lips, maintain orange tans, exhibit flawless nails, walk in six-inch heels and pick up their children from soccer practice in a Hollywood premier outfit. We can’t all look like Victoria Beckham.
I don’t think it’s necessary to get fapitzed every day. Yes, I confess to being a bit vain–I am guilty of making skin tag removal appointments–but no one seems to be addressing the issue of feminists and fashion. Until I read Sonia Isard’s article in “Lilith” called “Getting Dressed.” It inspired me to be proud of my self-maintenance appointments that include:
It’s finally acceptable for intelligent women to be serious about fashion. We’ve gotten the okay on the crazy shoes, high-end purses and clothes that are not designed to look like paper bags. I’m not sure how I look is the focus of my day but if we look great, it’s okay to flaunt it. We are now permitted to enjoy “the process of feminine self-presentation.” Which doesn’t mean I’m walking around on stilts anytime soon.
It may be time to change the way I approach my fashion choices. I have never really cared what those around me said about my style, except when Glee and April convinced me honeysuckle was my color. This won’t involve me looking through magazines and over-analyzing my attire in the mirror, but instead I will continue to wear what I feel comfortable in with a touch of flair. Like my Guatamalen vest or my Indian shoes with tinkling bells. I don’t need anything else to make me Stressed in Scottsdale. Except when I visit my mother.
It’s been busy week with events for Martha Beck and Gloria Feldt, but it started with Mother’s Day brunch at Friendly Arms. Michael, Rivka plus kids had the stomach flu and cancelled at the last minute, which did not pass the “good excuse list” for my mother. At any rate, she insisted if we were coming we had to dress up.
Her favorite phrase is, “Jean, what’s the point of going somewhere unless they know you’ve been there?”
I convinced Maury to put on a pressed golf shirt while I wore a linen dress with a scarf and Birkenstocks. I did comb my hair.
“Jean, you look very nice today. Except for the shoes. Couldn’t you wear the scarf in your hair or a hat? It’s so unruly. That’s from your father’s side of the family. His mother had hair like a Brillo pad.”
That’s the best compliment I’ve received from my mother in years. She never comments on Maury’s outfits because he’s a doctor and watches baseball with her, even though she has no interest in it whatsoever.
I do get glammed up when Glee and April tell me we’re going someplace “Scottsdale,” but I’m not about to do it for the Friendly Arms dining room where most of the inhabitants do not have 20/20 vision and wear plastic polyester from the 70s.
Usually my mother puts herself together very well, but every once in a while something appears from the bowels of her closet that horrifies me. Her response is: “What? Throw this out? The fabric’s still good.”
“But, Mom, it’s very outdated.”
“Who cares? I’m not trying to find another man.”
I should hope not. He’d have to be deaf and blind.
At any rate, I like women who think for themselves and misbehave. And, it’s okay to look cute too.