I was just looking at Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list, and I couldn’t help noticing that I wasn’t on it.
This was hurtful to me, especially since I didn’t make the list last year or the year before, either.
Now, this compendium has a fairly large number of people on it who have titles like Her Royal Highness and the Duchess of Bleeping Everything, but still, you’d think I could have made the cut.
After all, Lady Gaga was on there last year, and she’s not the queen of anything, except maybe pop music these days.
I mean, in addition to working full time and chasing two kids around, I also spend at least 20 minutes a year reading fashion magazines and shopping for clothes.
What was all that work for if my efforts are not even recognized?
It is fairly laughable that I even look at fashion magazines, considering every dress showcased inside them is worth more than the car in my driveway. And I have dictionaries that weigh more than some of those models, who need weighted saddlebags like jockeys to keep from blowing away on windy days.
But I like to look at them in the same way that I read National Geographic. I’ll never go to the moon or eat bugs for dinner with a Stone Age tribe from the Amazon (river, people, not retailer), and neither will I wear a strapless fishtail dress onto a red carpet.
Not this year, at least.
It’s fun to read lines in the Vanity Fair piece announcing its best-dressed list such as “Lupita Nyong’o was an obvious shoo-in, but the voters also anointed Donna Tartt (who loves her buttercup yellow kidskin gloves).”
I mean, who doesn’t? I have no idea who either of those women are. And I’ve never owned a pair of kidskin gloves. In fact, I’m not even sure what kidskin is. It’s not made from real kids like mine, is it?
I subscribe to Vanity Fair because it occasionally has pieces of amazing journalism, though I suppose that makes me sound like the men who read Playboy for the articles.
But being a subscriber doesn’t turn me into a fashion insider, nor does it wave a magic wand of sophistication over my stretched-out mom jeans that came from the discount store.
It’s fairly hard to justify wearing anything else, when my average day consists of writing at my home computer and running around doing research, enlivened only by the thrill of making lunch for the dog and then dinner for a pair of teenagers who complain they’re not hungry – until 9 p.m., when the food’s all been put away and they suddenly decide they’re ravenous.
Not exactly as exciting as the king of Bhutan, who made the best-dressed list from which I was shunned. But, then, his “notable ensemble of 2014” was a “traditional burgundy knee-length gho” to celebrate a bridge opening.
I don’t celebrate a lot of bridge openings around my house, and I only wear my ghos on alternate Mondays.
And I have a bone to pick with these people, as well as the editors of Vogue and other fashionista fare.
Why don’t you ever celebrate the value of Velcro?
Velcro is one of the most important fashion inventions of the century, but you never see any fashion magazines recognize it whatsoever.
In one fell swoop, it turned the tying of shoelaces from a laborious, grueling function that was one of the hardest tasks for your average child to learn, into an obsolete skill, like operating a fax machine or licking a stamp.
Zippers, laces, buttons – none of them is necessary anymore because Velcro can do their job, and better. Just ask any stripper anywhere if she could do her big reveal without it.
But Velcro gets no respect because it’s easy. Just like popular novelists get no respect because people can read their books. Only unreadable books win awards, because if no one can understand them, they must be worthy.
But, I digress.
This whole “not winning the best-dressed list” debacle this year just highlights something I’ve known for a while now. It’s great to be middle-aged.
I know, people want you to think it’s horrible to turn 40 or 50 or even 60 years old. But what they don’t tell you is that you might have to wear cheaters now, and forget your dog’s name, but you have something precious and rare: peace of mind.
You wake up one morning and realize you care more what you think about yourself than you do what other people think of you.
Do I realize that people judge me when I walk around Fashion Island in my ratty sandals and faded mom jeans? Yes. Yes, I do.
Do I care? No. Not one bit.
One day, standing in the parking lot at South Coast Plaza, a light bulb went off over my head.
I watched a woman get out of a late model Mercedes-Benz, dressed from head to toe in designer duds, including a hat and stiletto heels. This used to make me feel inadequate. But then I realized that she must be racked with insecurity. Otherwise, why would she work so hard at looking good?
I’ve reached a point in my life where I know my own worth, I have a set of friends who also realize it, and that’s all I need.
Contact the writer: 714-796-7994 or mfisher@ocregister.com
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