Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown (17 page)

Out.

Out with a major cringe look.

“
Bling
-
Bling
.”

Set up a firing squad.

The whole thing makes me feel out of it in a dumb, cute way, but pathetic at the same time, since I’m ten years older than these people. It’s not that I’d become some old fogey in my thirties, but when you start working with people who are ten years younger than you, it can sure make you feel that way.

On my first day working at the Promo House in 2002, I wore a pair of black rayon pants and a white V-neck cotton sweater that I got on sale at the Gap. Being an office dweller for so many years, I knew not to buy anything new before I started working, because you just don’t know what the style of the office is. When I arrived at the Promo House on my first day and took a look around, it was clear to me that I was overdressed and possibly overaged. The most spiffed-up woman I saw was one of the twenty-four-year-olds, wearing a Juicy Couture terry cloth sweatsuit that actually matched, both top and bottom, in baby blue. Flip-flops were the choice shoe among the who’s who at the Promo House, but they loved my six-inch heels and often asked to try them on. Watching this parade of hip and trendy fashion, all I could think of was my stupidity in donating all my cool, sexy clothes because a Democrat in Republican’s clothing had caught me in a yearlong lie. These girls would have loved that wardrobe. Why did I feel that I needed to punish myself so severely?

With the exception of my BFFATO (best friends forever at the office), Paula and Julian, and me—the three senior executives at the Promo House—every other person who worked there was twenty-four years old. And with the exception of my wardrobe, they all looked up to me, which I loved and, as it so happened, I looked up to them. Most were women and not girls, incredibly sweet women who were as ambitious and full of energy as they were trendy. I loved it when they asked my opinion on where I thought they should take their careers, or my advice in dealing with a new boyfriend.

Of the twenty-five people who worked there, it seemed like someone had a birthday every other day and they were always twenty-four. Even when the year passed, and we celebrated another year gone by, yet again, that person was turning twenty-four. Sometimes when I’d see the twenty-four-year-olds walk in wearing knee-high boots with short skirts, frilly tops, matching earrings, and bracelets, I wondered if it was a place for producing promo spots for television, radio, and print, or an MTV Spring Break Special. It also made me want to return to an old stomping ground I’d wondered why I’d given up on—Urban Outfitters—but it only made me feel older when I tried on the stuff and felt like one of those mothers who wears her daughter’s clothes to make them look cooler. Those mothers weren’t fooling anyone and, even from the dressing-room mirror, I could tell, neither was I. I opted for the alternative Urban Outfitters, the newfound Urban Outfitters of my generation, the VHI Spring Break Special of Urban Outfitters if you will: Anthropologie

“No, sweetheart, you tie it like
this,”
HeidiAnn (no hyphen, no space), the twenty-four-year-old assistant showed me as she wrapped a scarf around my neck. It took four more wearings before I got the knot down. When I wore a new T-shirt, HeidiAnn, who had previously been to school for clothing design, took the opportunity before a meeting with a hip music channel to cut my new T-shirt into a halter top, accentuating my better body parts with diamond-shaped holes and covering up the worse ones with extra fabric. She was like Picasso with those scissors, and when I showed it to the five women you meet in Los Angeles, each gave me a T-shirt and their measurements to take to the office. HeidiAnn made $250 from my clique for her good work.

Each time I bought something that I thought was hip and with-it, it was already out of style by the time I got to the office. These twenty-four-year-olds knew their trends, and I came to rely on it. They wore designer jeans that were so in, I hadn’t even heard of them.

“They’re called Seven for All Mankind,” Jenn with two n’s explained. “See, it’s spelled out,” she said, showing me the tag on the back of her jeans.

“Paper Denim & Cloth,” Kristin explained as she mouthed the words slowly and as loud as she could, as if I were hard of hearing given my age. “See how it’s lighter on the top and darker on the bottom? That’s so the ass doesn’t look as big.”

I had no idea that three-quarter-length coats were so 2002 and velvet cropped jackets were the here and now. A constant question that lurked in my brain as I saw these young women arrive at work in the morning with silk babydoll T-shirts and bell-bottom jeans was, “Where did these girls get these great clothes? Had they heard about the halter-top surplus at the Salvation Army?” I could have sworn one of them was wearing an old outfit of mine.

I chose to confide in my co-thirtysomethings, Julian and Paula.

“Oh my God,” Julian whispered in his distinct, excitable tone. “Isn’t it crazy? It’s all I ever think about. I spend more time thinking about what I’m going to wear to work than what I’m going to wear out with my boyfriend.”

“I had to stop breast-feeding and put Matty on Similac,” Paula admitted. “It was taking too long to pump in the morning, and I needed to spend that time finding something to wear!”

We all agreed that the tipping point of the office was Kelsey, a twenty-four-year-old junior executive who set the Promo House barometer on appearance and presentation. From her Marc Jacobs dresses to her Joie skirts, Kelsey’s daily outfit was a sight that Paris couture should have taken note of. She was not to be missed, and she knew it. Kelsey was the only twenty-four-year-old I found to be difficult to get along with. Even though she was ten years younger than me, she had that edge of slickness that just screamed “most popular girl in her class,” and even though I was her superior, I felt inferior to her and spoke to her as little as I had to. Her blond hair never had roots or a single split end in it.

“She must get a touchup every week!” Julian concluded.

“She must bathe it in mayonnaise,” Paula added. “How else can you get that shine?”

She was by far the head of the twenty-four-year-olds; all you needed to do was hear what they said about her behind her back to know she was envied. Since the girls had made me an honorary twenty-four-year-old, it was only right that I felt the same way.

“I heard Kelsey shoplifts from Saks,” Breva whispered, coming into my office one day.

“So
that’s
why she’s got such nice clothes!”

“I know, RIGHT?” she exclaimed. “And I also heard she sells coke to pay for the ones she doesn’t steal.”

“That is so low-rent!” I quietly roared.

“Oooh,” Breva said as if she’d bit into a lemon, “ ‘low-rent’ is a phrase from like twenty years ago.”

Just then, Kelsey walked into my office, hysterically laughing while flipping her blond tresses. Breva and I braced ourselves in fear that she might have been listening.

“So wait,” she said, laughing as she entered my office, “Julian just told me you donated a closet full of halter tops because a guy dumped you? Are you an idiot or something?”

I looked at Breva for any kind of help, and when I saw she wasn’t going to give any, I gave Kelsey the best answer I could.

“Yes, evidently I am.”

The thing I admired most about the twenty-four-year-olds was their ability to disregard any body-image issues. I could not understand how Breva, for example, all 5’1” and 160 pounds of her, could have mistaken the rolls of flab and back fat sticking out of the back of her pants for a sexy detail. The thing was, none of the other twenty-four-year-olds ever mentioned it—only Julian, Paula, and me within the confines of our own thirtysomething alcove of talk, and none of us would ever let the twenty-four-year-olds know. The ability to show flabby flesh, we all agreed, was truly admirable. If I could have written out the conversations the five women you meet in Los Angeles and I discussed about the little piece of flesh on one’s stomach or the way the top of one’s thighs stuck together, it could fill volumes. The twenty-four-year-olds had no problem with it, however, and I wished I had the guts they did. If it was a generational thing and not just a Promo House thing, God bless evolution.

There was only one time that I ever disagreed with the twenty-four-year-olds.

We were all sitting in the conference room sharing a pizza when Kelsey started the debate.

“I just hate Madonna,” Kelsey said. “She is so fake and I hate everything she wears.”

“She is a fashion icon,” I said as I cocked my newsboy hat, just like the one I’d seen her wear in
People
magazine the week before.

“Ugh,” Kelsey said as she stuck her tongue out. “Now Britney,” she said, “Britney could do no wrong in my book.”

“She is so trashy!” I replied. “Her clothes are too small for her and her hair is so dried out. With all that money, couldn’t she at least afford conditioning treatments?”

“That’s her style!” Breva retorted as she pulled her T-shirt down to just above her love handles. “Britney doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her. Madonna is all about what people think. She does everything for show.”

“Madonna dressed a generation!” My co-thirtysomething BFFATO Paula announced as she straightened her red string Kabbalah bracelet that she got at Kitson for $40.

“Britney made it OK for us to express ourselves any way we want!” HeidiAnn shot in.

The debate went on for another couple of minutes until I excused myself from the room. There was no point in going on.

We were two generations who would never understand what it was that made the other want to emulate these women who taught us it was all right to he who we wanted to be, no matter what anyone else thought. That was the deciding difference—the rigid, inflexible conviction that would never change.

7:30 A.M.
I’ve gotten out of bed an hour early this morning to shower, curl my hair, and pick out just the right outfit for my meeting with the network to pitch Promo House’s ideas to be the promo writers for their new talk show. I worked all through the night with Julian, preparing our PowerPoint presentation, and we know we can do no wrong. The job is in the bag. All I have to do is look presentable, and the three hours I’ve given myself should do the trick. My feeling is, if I feel good, then I’ll pitch good.

 

7:40 A.M.
I’m in the shower, mentally going through my wardrobe choices. Al Roker said it’s going to be “a hot one” in Southern California today. I’d like to go sleeveless since I have that Trina Turk white silk ruffled shirt that looks so cute with my black silk pants. I don’t know, though. Black and white? Is that too bland?

7:58 A.M.
I have to take a break and get some breakfast. Fuel up for the meeting. Fuel up for the looking in the closet. I’m thinking maybe I’ll try the ruffled shirt with jeans and my faux Chanel blazer jacket. There is that heat problem though.

 

8:14 A.M.
I look too pale for the Trina Turk white ruffled shirt, so the blazer won’t even be tried on. The jeans are a bad idea too. They just look like I don’t want the job, and I really want this job.

 

8:27 A.M.
Why didn’t I fake tan last night? The flowered A-line skirt I got at Anthropologie would be so perfect if I had only fake tanned. God, I’m pale.

 

8:45 A.M.
All right, calm down. You’ve still got an hour and a half before the meeting. I wish I could wear my olive green Alice + Olivia corduroy pants with my black boots. Al Roker, I ask you, why “a hot one”? Why?

 

8:52
A.M.
What about this black T-shirt with these cropped paisley pants I bought with my mother in Philadelphia that I’ve never worn? Is paisley in? Is paisley ever in? Do these pants look like drapes? What was I thinking, buying paisley pants? Maybe this white T-shirt would look better. Where are all my white bras? Could I pull off a black bra underneath a white T-shirt look? Is that sexy? On some people it looks cute. Whatever it is, it’s not the look I want for a pitch meeting. I’m throwing these paisley pants in the trash.

 

9:05 A.M.
Where did I get so many pairs of cropped pants? I have one, two, three, four ... seven pairs of cropped pants! I hate cropped pants! I’ve got to get some regular-length pants. I should have known that cropped pants were going out when they started referring to them as “clam diggers.” Rule number one: Never buy the same length pants two seasons in a row when they refer to them as something else. Maybe I’ll wear a wife beater underneath the faux Chanel jacket. Note to self: Start a campaign to change the name of ribbed white shirts, aka wife beaters, to something more appealing like “the never-fail,” or just “the ribbed white tank top.”

 

9:17 A.M.
OK, I’m going to look through this closet piece by piece, one more time. I’m sure I’ve missed something. Why do I still keep this InWear/Matinique black button-down vest? How old is this vest already? I think I got it ten, twelve years ago? Is that company still in business? Maybe I’ll wear the vest with a T-shirt underneath.

 

9:23 A.M.
I’m throwing this old vest in the trash.

 

9:32 A.M.
I’m naked except for Target underwear, sitting on my bed and staring at my closet. Why is this so hard? Why do I have to go through this? I can’t go to the pitch meeting. I’m calling in sick.

 

9:42 A.M.
Are people wearing long skirts these days? I think I saw Gwyneth wearing one in
People
last week. OK, I’ll wear this long pink skirt ... with what shoes? With what shirt? Forget the long skirt. Why don’t I have prearranged outfits? I should have outfits for occasions like pitch meetings. This is something I should have taken care of. This is why I don’t have children or a husband. I’m thirty-three years old and I still can’t even find something to wear in the morning. I’m so depressed. What am I doing with my life? I could seriously stick my head in the oven over this.
Thirty-three-
year-oLd
Promo House executive Adena Halpern took her own life this morning when she couldn’t find anything to wear to work.
Paula
in the
office is so big with using her kid as an excuse, and everyone accepts it. What if I had a child to take care of? How could I find something to wear
and
get a child off to school? Paula is a really sucky dresser, though, now that I think of it. I guess it’s because she’s got that kid. I guess that’s a part of that saying, “God gives us what he thinks we can handle.” Therefore, the most I can handle—though, obviously not—is getting dressed in the morning. How pathetic and yet true.