‘Thoughts on my pandemic “Quardrobe”‘
The absolutely most glamorous person I have ever clapped eyes on is a fabulous FOC (Friend of Child) I will call Glam Girl.
Yes, Glam Girl is a young person — younger than thirty, even — but with a sense of style in all things — food, friends, and yes, of course, fashion — that ordinarily would take decades of sophisticated living to acquire. (See reference to peacock-blue-lizard-Maud-Frizon-wearing boss in “Take a Letter, Miss Henry.”
Why, even when GG was in high school, which is where I first got to know her — I drove her and The Child to Stuyvesant every day during a transit strike — she had a certain je ne sais quois.
I was thinking about Glam Girl while doing laundry today because she recently posted a picture on Instagram celebrating her new catsuit. (Yes, GG wears catsuits; and she’s not even in a movie — at least not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she were.)
I’ll share it with you (she said it was okay.) Not only is it a gorgeous photo, but in it GG coins a gorgeous new word: “Quardrobe.” As in “The quardrobe has finally ceased.” (I told you this girl went to Stuyvesant; her vocabulary is as sophisticated as her wardrobe.)
Suffice it to say that there were no catsuits in my laundry today, either clean or dirty. These days, alas, it seems as though I have succumbed to the lure of the Quardrobe: seriously comfortable clothes suitable for quarantine.
And no, I’m not talking about jeans. Remember when jeans were the comfortable, dress-down option? (See the photo at the top of this post to see my mom and me oh-so-relaxed in denim.) Jeans were so, well, casual that it was considered scandalous to wear them to a serious event — like that time Mayor de Blasio’s wife wore jeans to a firefighter’s funeral. Ouch.
Nope, this was a tangle of stretchy, spandex-y stuff: tights and leggings and track pants. All black, all pretty much the same, and pretty much all I wear these days.
Oh, sometimes I dress up my top half. Like today I had a Zoom meeting. (Yes, even retirees have Zoom meetings, which I hate but sometimes can’t be helped.) I threw on a sweater over my tee shirt, added a strand of beads — et voila. Afterward I switched sweater for sweatshirt and ditched the beads. Aaaah.
Last week I wrote about going to a Black-Tie Do and getting to dress up and wear lipstick and perfume and real shoes and even (gasp) a bra. But the minute I got home? Back to the stretchy black duds.
I wonder how we will all dress when we finally emerge from our corona cocoons? Will denim then be the sartorial equivalent of say, taffeta?
Stay tuned. Right now I have to go get the spandex out of the dryer before my entire Quardrobe turns into stretch socks.
Amagansett, New York. March 2021