So 2004

Now, to seamlessly connect the two posts below...

My friend Carlos put a link on my "facebook wall," to this 2004 New York story about what those private-school girls are wearing these days, or, technically, were wearing in those days. The article is disturbing on many levels:

Level one--It's understandable that people would want to read about the sex-and-drug lives of Manhattan's rich-and-underage, but do that many people, even New York readers, really care what brand of middle-of-the-road sneaker or flip-flop this set prefers? The writer--a Brearley grad now at an unnamed college--points out that her set dresses like clones, and that their fashion is not artistic or chic or whatever but is in fact "tribal." Big shock there for anyone who's ever walked around the Upper East Side. How did this get published? No cocaine, no blowjobs, just... sweaters? While the overall theme--youthful decadence and adult decadence in this set are awfully similar--is that of the young-adult fiction Naomi Wolf discussed, there's something missing, and that something is the evil, vapid underside of this world. This is just shopping. If you're in the "wrong" jeans, what happens? Do people assume you're socially-inept, poor, or punk? What illicit activities take place in (or out of) those jeans? I mean, that's a story. This, not so much.

Level two-- I have some clothing that's very much like what Brearley types were wearing in 2004. While I could make certain excuses--Some of those Petit Bateau tops, and the blazer, and one cable-knit sweater were from sample sales! The Seven jeans were $25, used, at Beacon's Closet!--but I'm guilty as charged. I look like a (less put-together, stranger hair-colored version of a) UES private-school girl. Among my hipper-than-I-could-ever-be friends, this look does the opposite of make me fit in. Katherine has threatened to confiscate my Patagonia fleece, and not because she'd rather see me in a proper North Face. So a remarkably dull article about people dressing boringly is one in which I see myself. Fantastic. But at least, in the context of hipster-Brooklyn, my style of dress could be seen as rebellious, not as a result of a sense of style that has not progressed since I was in eighth grade. Or something.

Level three-- There was going to be a level three, but pondering jeans and sweaters has caused me to nearly fall asleep on the couch. Time to return (?) to substantive blogging.