Fashion confounds the mind, explores desires and dreams, expresses individuality and invites the world to take a second look, when it is done well. When it is not, fashion is just a hot mess.

I find myself growing more and more frustrated with the fashion scene. At one time originality, elegance, creativity and glamour ruled the runways. I now see a hodge-podge of recycled looks. The cuts of the clothes are from the eighties, the styling is reminiscent of the late seventies, the colors and the fabrics are from the sixties and the whole thing leaves me yearning for something fresh. The models have gone from thin to barely living and what once was a showcase of luxury that the common woman could not afford has been replaced with what the common woman cannot wear.

I wonder who these designers are designing for these days. Certainly not the women I encounter on a daily basis. Women from the bank downstairs are not going to sport gladiator heels and exaggerated shouldered blazers with harem pants to work. Not unless they want to get written up or mocked relentlessly. Women in the shopping malls might sell the clothes, but these same women are not wearing them while they work the cash registers and clean the dressing rooms. Women working in the art galleries and design studios might infuse creativity into their everyday lives. Yet these women will not stand for hours a day in nine-inch stilettos. Women with hips and breasts and curves and those who measure in at less than six foot tall (which includes the VAST MAJORITY OF WOMEN IN THE WORLD) are unable to wear so many things that I see touted as ready-to-wear fashion. The tulip skirt, the leather legging, the harem pant, and the tent dress are fashion disasters for most women. Yet these have become the staple shapes of the fashion industry of today.

As a result, the common woman yearns to bring the trends of the runway into her reality. She saves her funds to invest in these designer pieces, proud to sport the cutting looks. With her hips, curves and normal-length legs, these trendy tulip skirts and harem pants make her look wretched. She sees herself, grossly disproportioned in these awful cuts and compares her image to that of the six foot tall, 100 pound model on the runway. The typical woman feels the pangs of defeat and disappointment and rather than seeing that the clothes are wrong for her, thinks herself terrible. She sees the flaws in her own body, sees the curves as imperfections, sees the hips as oddities, or even sees the breasts as limitations. She does not stop to think that perhaps the flaw lies in the clothes themselves.

Perhaps I feel this way because I am one of those typical women with hips and breasts and curves and those who measure in at under six foot tall. Perhaps I am just speaking for myself and perhaps I just sound jealous of those that can pull off these looks. I wish that I could properly convey how much this is a flawed perspective. If a woman is able to wear these troublesome looks, that’s great for her. I would probably see her walk by and gaze in a complimentary fashion as she walks by. I do not envy her ability to wear those clothes. I am smart enough, and confident enough, to realize that certain things work for me and certain things work for other women. My frustration simply lies with the majority of designers seemingly turning their backs on the greater part of the women in this world. Those women that cannot work these unforgiving pieces, those that cannot make these looks work, those women that could be investing millions of dollars in that designers clothing line. It seems beyond ignorant, prejudiced and simply bad business.

I wonder what measures it will take to truly change the industry. What will be required of the magazine industry and the retail outlets that support this misguided direction that the designers are taking? What will be required of the woman that is spending her evening staring longingly into the magazines and yearning for the new Yohji Yamamoto? What will be required of the people infusing the funds into the fashion industry to make it fundamentally change? Perhaps we just need to keep our wallets closed for a while and maybe then they will get the message.

Until then, I will happily put aside my Vogue and Bazaar magazines, pick up good old Glamour with its figure flattering clothes, its respectful representation of affordable clothing and its range of models from straight to plus size, and hope that the industry starts to take notice. Not that losing my subscription dollars will put a dent in their respective pocket books, but at least I am exercising my opinions rather than just feeding the beast.

Perhaps the recent occurrences there, in a country deep in the turmoil of an civil uprising, will start to enlighten those antiquated ideas that fill the heads of the leaders of Iran.  Women, once sitting on the sidelines with fear in their eyes and the yearning for freedom in their hearts are taking to the streets.  No longer are they showing their courage by a single strand of hair peaking out from their hijab.  No longer is a flash of crimson painted on their frowns the only way they can express the injustice they face daily.  Enough has finally been enough.

Walking hand in hand with the progressive men of the area that also believe in their cause, these women are peacefully declaring that they should be counted - they should matter - their voice is worthy to be heard. People here in the U.S. might find it hard to understand why this is so revolutionary as we are granted the right of free assembly and the right to free speech no matter our gender.  Things in Iran are not at all like they are here.  The freedoms we take for granted here are things that many Iranian people can only hope to achieve one day.  It seems that the Iranian people are growing tired of hope for change, they are demanding that change and are putting their lives on the line to ask for it.  Many men and women have been brutally beaten and some killed in the name of the change they seek.  May their lives not be lost in vain.

Women, who once used the hijab to adhere to the rules of their rigid society, are now using it to declare their alliance with the revolution.  Green is the color identified with the members of the opposition, those members in alliance with Mir Hossein Mousavi.  These women are placing this green headscarf on and vibrantly declaring their opinion, making their voices heard and rallying for their own freedom.  As an Iranian woman, born here in America, I am impressed, emboldened and encouraged by these brave women.  Their headscarves of green fill me with hope for a better future of the land where my family once called home.  Their hijabs which once represented control and prejudice are now a symbol of something better to come.  I applaud them all, the women taking to the streets and the men standing by their sides screaming for their freedom.

This lovely young woman has been single ever since I met her almost two years ago.  There have been a few possibilities here and there, all of which she passed up on the highway that is her life. They were not the right fit, no spark, no za za zoo.  Now, out of nowhere, she tells me she is getting married.

What she says next put me into a state of utter awe.  She says,” I am marrying myself.”

Of course we banter back and forth for a few seconds on the absurdity of marrying yourself and the potential violation of many laws if this self-love is declared in public.  We giggle, like bad girls do, and then she explains this further and changes my point of view on marriage forever.

She explains that she is frustrated that all her married friends get all the good parties, good gifts, good tidings.  As a single girl, she is often treated as a person worthy of pity.  “Poor thing.  She is all alone.”  or the always pleasant “one day someone will love you”.  Ouch.

So she decided to take matters into her own hands.  She said that she loved herself just as she is and did not need to change herself for some man.  So, if someone else did not want to marry her, she could marry herself. And, in the process, she can get lots of stuff for her house!

Yes, she the uber-savvy young lady that she is, has decided to register this marriage to herself at places like Target and Bed Bath and Beyond.  Like all soon-to-be-married couples, she will thrust her wants and desires onto those that she loves (and some she just likes) so they can foot the bill on fancying up her digs.

Pewter salt and pepper shakers - check.

New linens - check.

Crazy colored margarita glasses - check.

I think this is genius.  First of all, why do you need to wait for some man to put a ring on your finger to determine your value as a person.  Hoorah for her decided that she determines her own worth.  Tell those people in the stands judging your life that being single is not a disease - especially if the only cure is a marriage to a man (or woman) of which the probability for success is less than 50%.

Second of all, so many of my pseudo-friends (those hangers on from years gone by) are getting married and hitting me up for gifts.  They send me these expensive invitations with precious little tucked in cards that tell me where I should buy their gifts.  I barely like most of them, and they have not called or talked to me in eons.  Yet, because some dude put a ring on their finger and they decided to take out an extravagant loan to pay for a wedding that might lead to a three-year marriage, I am obliged to buy them a china serving dish or a lazy Susan.  Screw that.  I would prefer to spend money on my single girlfriends, those that still need the stuff for their homes, those girls without two incomes to stock a house - those friends that I actually talk to on a regular basis.

So to my newly engaged good friend, I wish you all the very best on your upcoming nuptials.  I am happy to receive your registration information and will happily march to the register to buy any old silly thing you want for your place.  May your marriage be a success and your marriage bed never be cold!  He He He….

I am not saying that I am any wiser than the next person.  I am not saying that I have not made mistakes.  I make them all the time and I try to learn from those mistakes.  Lucky for me, my friends and family don’t often respect that law about keeping their hands out of my crawfish pile.  They butt in, push me to see the reality of life and often times keep me from running head-first into a brick wall.  Truth be told, many times I want to tell them to back off - to go judge someone else - to mind their own beeswax.  Truth be told, they are often more right than wrong.  Truth be told, I am happy that they butt their noses into my business, and offer advice - albeit unsolicited sometimes - and keep me on the straight and narrow.  I do the same for them.  In a way, we have become each others’ conscious.  I can count on every one of them - through thick and thin - they will be there.

The best thing about these friends - whom I consider my family - is that they are not just here to tell me when I am screwing up.  They are not only around to celebrate when things are going right.  They are also here to help me pick up the pieces when things do fall apart.  Without them, my family, I might surely be in a dark and miserable place.

I guess they have helped me into this pickle.  My Louisiana friends understand me - they get me - they take me for better or worse.  They understand when I need to speak up when they are acting the ass.  They probably expect it.  Just as I do of them.  We understand that sometimes the people that love you have to judge your actions, offer you advice on how to get out of a jam and keep you from making a bigger mistake in the name of pride and anger.  Because of them, it is hard for me to sit by and watch others - outside of my Louisiana clique - do something stupid, hurt someone (or many) in the name of stubborn pride and foolish anger.  I guess I am hoping they can offer me some advice on how to handle this situation.  Maybe I should still keep my nose out of these other people’s business, perhaps my LA buddies will have the answer on how to keep my mouth shut.  Heaven knows I need the help right now.

You cannot escape the stuff.  It’s in your office with co-worker trying to set you up with that special someone.  It’s at the gym - get a better bod and upgrade your partner in the process.  It’s at the drug store - buy this perfume and you’ll attract the man of your dreams.  Bullshit!

It’s everywhere we turn - this mad dash to find someone else to complete us, to make us worthy, to show to the world that one other person loves us enough to lock themselves to us for the rest of their lives (or at least the rest of the relationship/marriage/jail sentence).  There are books, movies, websites, magazines, billboards, tee-shirts and newspapers yelling at me constantly saying that I have to find a significant other or I will not be significant.  Not only do I need someone to copulate with, I need someone to share the lonely days and nights, I need someone to eat at Wendy’s (love those french fries) with me, I need someone to take care of me when I can no longer control my bowels, I need someone to hold my hand when times get rough - I need a soul mate!  I must think beyond the animal and into the human side of attraction.  I must find one person (out of billions) that is perfectly suited for me, woo him into a seduction of amorous affection so strong that he will not be tempted by another (good luck with that) and I must work at it everyday or else love might slip away like a broken umbrella in a rain storm.  Nice, even when I work my butt off to find this one in a billion person, get him to like me back, utilize skills worthy of Cirque Du Soleil to keep him entertained, I still have to work at it to make sure that I do not let love fade away.

What’s worse, most of these overtly obtrusive media outlets keep pushing me to change myself to get this significant other - this soul mate.  I need to better understand him, I need to familiarize myself with the type of women he might want, I need to adjust parts of myself to lure a man - this fictitious soul mate to whom I am supposedly cosmically connected.  Women are not supposed to try to change a man, but we have to change almost everything about ourselves and our needs (supposedly) to get a man.  My question:  If this one person is truly my soul mate, wouldn’t he like my soul just as it is right now?  If I go changing, aren’t I just taking someone else’s soul mate?  How rude of me!

I am exhausted by it all.  Love, like Christmas, has become commercialized and therefore has lost its luster.  A man really does not love you unless he buys you a ring so big you cannot pick up your arm.  A man shows his affections with expensive dinners and extravagant bouquets of flowers that die in three days.  Women show their affection through ridiculously expensive lingerie and cosmetic surgery.  If your man ain’t buying you Prada, then throw him out.  Let your new man put you in VIP or tell the poor bastard to take a hike.  Really, does anyone know what love really means anymore?  Does anyone really want that version of love anymore, might be a better question?

I do not want to date a fabricated Prince Charming and I am fairly certain that most men do not want to date a simulated Barbie doll.  They just want to fuck her.

I, like many women, want the real deal or nothing at all.  Either the person I am with enriches my life (be it rich or poor, healthy or sick, better or worse) or there is no point.  Why do I need to have someone around just to fill the empty space beside me on the bed.  I do not need someone to buy me Prada.  I can by that myself.  I do not need someone to make my life complete.  Truth be told, I might need someone to help me when I cannot control my bowels…but then again, I hope to have home health care take care of that crap.

Led me to your arms

Poems fell on me like leaves in a storm

Adoration, overwhelming, suffocating

Now dissipating

Change takes its form in silence

Too quiet to be seen

To loud to avoid

Pounding my brain, my heart

Destructive, destroying, desecrating

Contemplating the darkness

Searching for lightness that once dwelled

Now loneliness swells my skin

About to burst from the pressure

Ready to run head first back into yesterday

Now I am unfurled and scathed

Just a lonely lily pad searching for its toad

A book in search of its shelf

A candle without its wick

]]> http://blog.karilea.com/?feed=rss2&p=71 http://blog.karilea.com/?p=69 http://blog.karilea.com/?p=69#comments Sat, 10 Jan 2009 22:21:52 +0000 Kari http://blog.karilea.com/?p=69  

I skulked quietly into the room, selecting one of the seats near the rear, closest to the door in the off-chance that I needed to make a run for the exit.  I sat uncomfortably in the metal chair, folding my arms in a failed attempt at warmth.  My head was tilted downward, my eyes cast up as I scanned the room.  Looking face to face I was hoping to see some commonality, some glimmer of understanding, something that reminded me of myself.  What I found were blank stares with unconvincing smiling faces; like a marionette shop that had lost all its string.  

Next to me sat a woman dressed in her tennis best, gleaming whites that matched from her teeth to her sneaks.  She smelled of orange juice and old sweat.  She talked of her childhood, her fascination with cookie dough and how it caused her to wreck her car one afternoon.  Desperate for the sugary sweetness, the chocolatey-goodness, this woman got up from a not-so-deep sleep and drove to the nearest twenty-four hour grocery store.  She walked down the florescent-lighted isles, searching for the cooler section and her deepest desire.  She found the packages nestled between the low fat butter and the nonfat yogurt and hustled down the isle to the checkout, then drove off toward the comforts of home.  Pushed to madness by her craving, she jammed her house key into the plastic wrapper and pushed the gooey goodness into her mouth feverishly.  In the pleasure of the moment, she failed to remember that she was still in motion, barreling down the road in the middle of the night.  She learned this fact after she found the front half of her car implanted in the side of a car parked in front of a Circle K convenience store.  She gave her name, said she was glad to be sharing her experience and folded her hands in her lap in silence.

Sitting about three rows ahead was a man with a Miller Light baseball cap on his head.  The back of his tee-shirt read “Jesus saves: One prayer at a time.”  He prayed every day, he said.  He prayed every day for sanity, he said.  He prayed every day for release from his addiction, he said.  He gave his name, said “praise be to the Lord”, and sat back on the chair with his hands folded cockily behind his head, resting against his Miller Light baseball cap.

Immediately in front of me sat another generously-cushioned man, dressed in faded khaki pants, a filthy and faded grey tee-shirt with spaghetti sauce stains, decorated with leather straps and dangling medallions of unknown origins.  His hair was thinned from premature balding, his body was malformed from excess weight and his shoes appeared ready to burst under the pressure.  Then he spoke with a woman’s voice and declared to the room that his name was a woman’s name.  I wondered if I was not the only one surprised to find that this monstrous being was indeed a woman. The woman went on to talk of her past.  She reminisced on shopping for dresses as a little girl and the embarrassment of never finding garments that fit around her “big-boned” frame.  She discussed her love-hate relationship with french onion-flavored potato chips and red cream soda and admitted to trying to slit her wrists.  She joked that she was so heavy, she could not find the vein to end it all.  Desperate for comfort, she ate two Sara Lee cheesecakes, washed them down with a three-liter of coke and drifted off to sleep while watching a Tony Little infomercial for the ‘Gazelle’.  She wiped a tear from her ruddy, plump cheek, said thank you for listening and retreated to her safe space without another word.

Many others shared, their stories similar in many ways, their faces still locked in a look of zealous adherence to the guidelines posted in a list of twelve on the wall.  They were powerless, they said.  They were uncontrollable, they said.  They were diseased, they said.  Their drug of choice was food and they were ready to admit they were addicts.

I was not supposed to be there.  I was not supposed to be sitting in that room.  I was an outsider, a non-believer, an empowered person in a room of weaklings.  I wanted out of that room.  I needed to leave before they sucked out my soul and ate it for breakfast.  I looked to the exits.  The one door closest to me, my planned escape, was now blocked by a rather large man with work boots and stone-washed jeans.  The other, at the front of the room, was in grabbing distance to all the drones sitting in the metal chairs.  I thought to myself that leaving that way would be cruel, hurtful and just mean to the others in the room - the confessed addicts - the powerless.  I thought that by leaving I would be a physical example of prejudice and disrespect.  I thought it would say that “Not only do I not believe in your group, I do not believe in your so-called-disease and do not want to be around you losers.”  No matter, I wanted out.  But, it was my sympathy for their plight, my understanding of issues with weight, that forced me to stay planted to that metal chair until the team leader said otherwise. 

Finally the minute hand on the clock fell into the correct place and the team leader made his final statements to the room.  He then requested that we all stand and pray for God, or the Creator, or some higher power, to help us with our powerlessness to food.   With that same breath, he said that the meeting was not one of a religious basis, and was not affiliated with any specific Christian organization.  He then lead a typical Christian prayer:  “Our father, who art in heaven, blah blah blah blah.”

He then dismissed the group, saying lastly that everyone was invited to regroup for lunch.  Apparently, the group was meeting at Golden Corral for the all you can eat buffet.  

I kid you not.  I chuckled as I walked to the car.  

This has been the tale of my first and only trip to an Overeater’s Anonymous meeting.  That’s the truth of it, with a few details changed to protect the identity of the innocent and the powerless.  

Things have changed. The shiny, glittering goodness of Christmas has given way to greed and commercialism. The competition for bigger and better has taken the place of laughter and joy. Sitting around the table with family and friends is now replaced with text messages to those you love. Special gifts specifically picked out for those near and dear are now just gift cards. You don’t get to hear the pitter patter of little feet running down the hall to open presents on Christmas morning because they are at mom’s house or dad’s house on the weekly time share. We do not drink eggnog, because it is too fattening. We do not use wrapping paper because it kills the environment. We watch a Christmas Story but it is not special anymore because TBS plays it all day and all night like a freaking telethon. The measure of my love for my family and friends is based on how many presents I give them, how much I spend. The pie is low-fat, the turkey is cruelty-free, the soda is bubble-free and the wallet is tragically-empty.

Christmas seems to have completely lost all its joy and innocence. I miss the old days. I miss counting on nothing more than laughter. I miss that feeling that you picked out the most perfect present for someone, something that they could never have expected, something they can never really thank you for but appreciate more than you know. I miss the smell of Christmas cookies burnt on the cookie sheet. I miss the sound of that stupid battery-operated Santa Claus. I miss the innocence of it all.

I want to get it all back. I want to crawl back into the safety of my youth. A time before I was jaded. A time before I was thrust out into the real world with its mean tricks and unforgiving nature.

That’s my Christmas wish for next year. All wrapped in silly, glittering paper, with a giant bow, too much tape and the best of intentions. Let it sit below my Charlie Brown Christmas tree, slanting to the side, on a television tray in the corner of my mind.

Why won’t you listen?

Why can’t you hear?

I keep on screaming

But my words seem to disappear

I am asking for safety

Wishing for hope

My heart grows tired

And I’m at the end of my rope

You stand there staring

I just wish you could see

That loving alone

Is slowly destroying me

I have fought my last fight

I’m bruised and scared

Now I need you

To show me that you care

Sitting here

Spinning glasses in the light

The bar smells dark and dangerous to me

I can’t see where you’ve gone

Don’t know where I’ve been

Hopefully we will meet somewhere

In between

Under the bar lights

While the melodies hang in the air

Suffocating me