Once your personal vision is clear, seek out a few quality pieces that convey your vision and flatter your body type. These are the key wardrobe essentials, the basics of your uniform. The first thing to find is a simple, versatile dress that you can transform with accessories. Next on your list is a perfectly fitting pair of trousers and the type of skirt that works best on your body type. Add a great tailored jacket and a couple of nice blouses. It’s that easy; these are the workhorses of any wardrobe, so this is where you want to go for quality over quantity. The clothes should fit you perfectly; have them tailored if necessary. These pieces don’t need to be a matched set, but they should blend, so you can mix them together. If your simple dress is a bohemian print, think about a solid jacket with some handcrafted detail, so it has the same feeling as the dress and they can be worn together. Just fill in with some seasonal T-shirts, sweaters, and the occasional inexpensive trendy item, and I promise this wardrobe will take you anywhere in the world.
Now that your garment rack is looking purposeful, it is time to consider your shoe wardrobe. Personally, I believe the shoes make the outfit. A little black dress with a pair of sexy stilettos will get you through the cocktail hour looking sharp. That same dress worn with flat sandals or boots is perfect for daytime. Put on a serious shoe, like a feminine loafer, throw that aforementioned jacket over your shoulder, and the business world is yours. See how easy this game is? With a great evening shoe (supersexy required), a casual shoe (I don’t mean sneakers), and an “I mean business shoe,” your shoe wardrobe needs are covered.
The final category on your list of essentials is bags. This is another context where I can’t overstress how important quality is. All you really need is a classic evening bag and a couple of day bags that give you color and size options. These should be thoughtful and careful purchases: your bag, like your shoes, can transform your basic clothing and help your personality come through. Consider what you are trying to say with your style, and make sure your bag says it.
Do not panic; I am not saying that once this concise list is complete you never get to shop again. I do not love shopping, but if you do, think of it as upgrading this master list of items. But beware. If you just keep adding, instead of upgrading these key pieces, your closet will become overwhelming, and dressing will become a chore. Keep it simple; make it easy.
DO NOT BELIEVE FOR ONE MOMENT THAT I OWN ONLY THREE PAIRS of shoes. Rules are, after all, meant to be broken, and shoes are a particular passion of mine. I collect shoes the way some people collect art; and while great style does not require great funds, I would be remiss if I led you to believe my shoes are inexpensive. Because I save so much money sewing my own clothes, I feel I get to spend more on shoes. In my defense, I still wear the first pair of Manolos I ever bought. After thirteen years of wear, they have been refurbished many times, but that pair of shoes long ago earned their keep.
My shoes are not neatly tucked away in a closet, nor are they relegated to dusty boxes affixed with Polaroids of what’s inside. No, my shoes have pride of place in the middle of our loft, shelved like books where I can see them and be reminded of walking down the banks of the Seine in this pair, leaving the hospital with Larson in that pair. They are my little soldiers, standing at attention, waiting to go for a spin or to show themselves off to guests. I won’t say that they make me happier than my children, but I won’t say that they don’t, either.
If there were a fire in my apartment, and I only had time to grab one pair of shoes, I know exactly which pair it would be. Much as I have a favorite child, I have a favorite pair of shoes: my russet-colored alligator Manolo pumps. They have a three-and-a-half-inch heel, the ideal height for me, and they are the most glorious color. They match my hair, so no matter what color my black dress is, these shoes always work. The cut is low and sexy, dipping down the sides and front, revealing just the right amount of toe cleavage. They are my most expensive shoes, but that is merely a coincidence. The way these shoes make me feel when I slip them on is priceless.
I have four bags. Unbelievable, isn’t it? I have only four bags, but they are so delicious I can pass by the purse selection of any department store without the slightest temptation to be unfaithful. Each bag represents a time, place, or event in my life. Whether the moment is one of amazing good fortune or scrappy ingenuity, a reward for a job well done, or the celebration of an event, my bags mark the passing of time. These intimate friends go with me everywhere; they inhabit my personal space. They know my secrets and can be trusted to keep them. I feel about these bags the way a person in L.A. must feel about his or her car. My bags are the loyal friends that provide me with the things I need all day, tucked away in their little compartments, ready for the asking.
Big things come in big packages, but sheer joy comes in small ones. When I was helping my husband sort through his recently deceased mother’s storage space, I found my first—and smallest—bag. We had come across a garment box of old clothing, the kind with its own hanging rod. I was quite pregnant at the time and not all that interested in viewing Mrs. Shelton’s size-way-smaller-than-me clothes when a tiny flash of light from the depths of the box caught my eye. I took a quick look around the room to make sure my sister-in-law was pointed in another direction and reached in, blindly letting my hand fall onto the most perfect, hard, rough-surfaced rectangle known to the bag world. I pulled it into the bare fluorescent light of the room and it was like walking into Studio 54. Shots of glimmering light spun around the place as I turned the treasure over in my hand. Yes, it was encrusted with crystals; yes, it was small enough to fit into my palm; and yes yes yes when I slid the clasp over and up it opened like Venus on the half shell to expose the tiny little gold plate with the words “Judith” and “Leiber” embossed thereon. In marvelous addition, nestled in the rich black velvet were a delicate silver comb with a tassel, a silver metallic-leather change purse, and a smile-width mirror. Drop in a lipstick and a twenty and the possibilities would be endless. I caught a glimpse of my belly in the mirror and came back to my senses long enough to give up an antique end table in order to make the minaudiére (the word alone!) all mine. I cannot count the weddings this darling has been to, the awards ceremonies, the black-tie fund-raisers, I can’t count the times it has spun around a dance floor. Was the table worth a lot more money? It never crosses my mind; the bag has been a lot more fun.
When Peik was born, I decided I needed a Birkin bag to go with him. Have you seen diaper bags? They come in the most hideous patterns and sizes. Or at least they did fourteen years ago, before smart designers like Kate Spade got into the game. There was no way I was going down that ugly road. A diaper bag is fine if you’re throwing it in the back of a minivan where no one’s going to see it, but I was not going to walk the streets of New York pushing a stroller with one of those monstrosities banging against my leg. An Hermès Birkin would serve the same purpose, I figured; it was roomy enough to fit Peik in a pinch, besides the diapers and wipes and all that stuff you need to keep a baby clean, dry, and happy. Why not make Mommy happy, too? I couldn’t afford a new Birkin, so I started stalking the upscale thrift shops in New York City. I would stop by regularly and get to know the salespeople. If I were looking today, I would head for the Web, but this was the dawn of the Internet revolution. I left my name and phone number at every store, hoping if a Birkin came in they would give me first crack at it. One day I got the call: a forty centimeter, camel colored, with gold hardware. Gently used. Perfection. That bag has seen me through fifteen years and four more babies; most recently, this past weekend, it took on the contents of Pierson’s Big Gulp blue Icee and didn’t complain in the least. It seemed almost happy to help. That’s a real friend.
My second Hermès bag was purchased during a trip to Paris with my husband. Brand-new, from the store on the Faubourg Saint Honoré. That was a real thrill. The bag came with all the accoutrements: a big orange box, brown ribbon, scads of tissue, a rain cover, and an orange flannel dust cover. I chose a sleek
black Kelly bag in box calf. The Kelly bag is named for Grace Kelly, who carried one to cover her pregnancy; I looked like royalty myself sporting that bag around Paris. I love the bag’s prim and proper shape, and the way it makes me feel always follows suit.
It was many years later that I received my third Hermès bag. Because I was the owner of classics in brown and black, I could afford to go a bit wild with this one. As a gift from Peter on the birth of my sixth child, I received an orange Haute à Courier with silver hardware. Similar to a Birkin, but with slightly different proportions, this bag is for fun. To me, it is the little red sports car of purses.
THIS SHOULD BE THE FIRST COMMANDMENT IN THE FASHION BIBLE: Thou Shalt Have a Little Black Dress. We have Coco to thank for that genius stroke as well. I came across my version in what was perhaps my most penniless time, just after my divorce and a few years after I had moved with my daughter to New York City. I was cruising the sale racks of T. J. Maxx, which is like saying I was walking around the pound looking for a Norwegian Lundehund, and there it was: an ankle-length Donna Karan with empire waist and scoop neck, for $14.95. It wasn’t much to look at on the rack, but I’d been refashioning bargain clothes since I was ten and knew in an instant that if I took the hem up over the knee the dress would be exquisite on me. I’ve always had that knack, I guess, and mainly have my mom to thank—she was a sewing teacher and I learned everything I know at her elbow, the way some kids learn to bake cookies.
I was wearing that little black dress the night I met Peter, and then again on our first date. I’ve worn it between pregnancies, during pregnancies, and after pregnancies; I even rolled it out (with some lengthening) on the runway when I introduced my line of evening wear in Bryant Park, in front of the cameras, six months pregnant with Finn. I won’t be surprised if they decide to bury me in that dress when I’m old and small and gray.
My passion for fashion may seem excessive, but remember: I live in a house full of destructive boys. My personal luxuries are the only things I can protect, the only things that don’t get destroyed. Now is not the time for me to enjoy a porcelain collection, or nice furniture; and I really think Mame would approve.
If you think fashion is a venture for the intellectually inferior, I challenge you to give it a try. Dressing better will make you feel better. Who can deny the psychological lift of a new hairstyle or a well-cut dress? How about the feeling of “I’m worth it” that comes from a luxurious cashmere sweater, or the confidence you feel at work when you appear taller, slimmer, and more powerful in a great pair of heels? What we wear sends an unspoken message. It shows that you have taken the time to treat yourself well, and that others should, too. I say dress up every day; you never know when you’re going to meet your next husband. Be exuberant, celebrate occasions large and small in how you dress, and remember, everyone appreciates glamour.
THE LAURA BENNETT DIET™
“I will proudly walk into my fifties with my ass held high, thanks to my power panties.”
A FEW YEARS AGO I WAS AT A SAMPLE SALE for one of my favorite designers. Most women I know dread communal dressing rooms more than they do the gynecologist, with their impersonal drapes, bad lighting, crowded mirrors, and female security guards watching your every half-naked move. The friend who was with me that day has been known to try clothes on over her jeans to avoid exposure. Me, I grabbed about a dozen garments for myself, handed her a dress I knew would work for her, and pointed her to the back of the room.
“I am not getting undressed,” she said.
“You have to,” I replied, grabbing another dress on our way. The room was packed, as feared, but I didn’t care. I shepherded Rachel to a slightly more protected corner and we quickly peeled off our clothes.
“What are you wearing?” she exclaimed, looking over at me while trying to keep her thonged backside to the wall. “A girdle?”
“It’s not a girdle, it’s a power slip. And instead of worrying about what it’s called, you should be asking me where to get one.”
“But you don’t need one of those—you look great.”
“I look great because I have one of these. Trust me, it’s the best diet out there.” There is nothing like the instant gratification of looking ten pounds lighter and twenty years smoother when you pull on a pair of Lycra™-infused bike shorts.
And now you know the cornerstone of my diet. There have been the most amazing, life-altering advances in technology over the past decade—the BlackBerry, Google, iPods. How did I ever research papers as a college student? Keep up with distant family members? Buy books? Friend my third-grade crush? I won’t do that last, but I could. I simply cannot remember life before broadband. These are all marvelous changes, but they don’t hold a liquid crystal display to the introduction of high-tech fabrics. A glorious cocktail of Microfiber, Lycra, Spandex, and Elastine instantly transforms my butt. I love my shapewear. Perhaps I exaggerate the degree to which I loathe my lowest asset, but I know very, very few women over the age of thirty who don’t have some body flaw here or there that wouldn’t benefit from a firm foundation. Cinch the waist, tighten the tummy, raise the rear: there is a shape shifter for every task. Women wear bras in order to lift and separate; why not wear a bra for your butt?
Speaking of the latter, I do not envy a dating woman who has to remove a pair of nuclear-powered knickers for an impromptu romp. There really is no sexy way to extract oneself. As Bridget Jones found out the hard way, those events need to be carefully planned and prepared. Happily, I’m at a stage in my life where I dress to please myself. Besides, a good girdle might be all that stands between me and baby number seven.
“Six kids! You don’t look like you have six kids.”
I have to wonder what people think a woman with six kids looks like. I suspect they mean, “You don’t look fat enough to have six kids.” News flash: having babies does not make you fat. If having babies made you fat, I would be huge. Beyond huge. Taking in more calories than you burn off makes you fat. I think women get lazy, then blame babies for the demise of their figures. I blame a lot of my problems on my kids—the fact that I have little free time, the fact that I am nearly deaf, the fact that someone came into my bed in the middle of the night and peed—but not the fact that I have a big butt.
I do have to give some credit to genetics. It’s easy to hide five pounds here or there on a five-foot-nine-inch frame. I have hardly won the genetic lottery, though, and I do contribute to staying in shape.
I am not much of an eater. And it’s not that I have food issues or a “disorder;” I simply don’t get a big kick out of great food. I’m what most people call a grazer. This does not complicate my marriage in any way, as Peter is not much of an eater himself. Every three days or so, he helps himself to a huge platter of fries and a bacon cheeseburger, and I rarely see him eat anything else. Because I don’t often sit down for a full, satisfying repast, I tend to snack my way through the day. A handful of Goldfish here, a tablespoon of Skippy there, and a half hour later you might see me squirreling a bunch of almonds into my pocket to nibble on as I turn a seam. I often have crackers and cheese for dinner. Luckily for the boys, Alicia and Nicole make sure they are provided with those things called meals.
I have a deep-seated aversion to diets. I get nervous if my eating is restricted. If I have to have an Oreo, I have to have it. I just try to keep myself from eating the entire pack. I have no idea how women follow those diets that list specifically every item you need to eat at every meal. And frankly, if I ate the amount of food that most of those diets recommend, my ass would be the size of a double-wide trailer. I suspect my distrust of restrictive dieting is rooted in my own childhood. My parents once decided to go on the Atkins diet with the kind of fervor that made the plan so wildly popular—you had a license to eat bacon and cheese at every meal! Vegans aside, what red-blooded American wouldn’t be thrilled with those instructions? Even as a child, I didn’t see how it could be healthy, but they did manage to lose weight—my mom as much as twe
nty pounds, which she gained back as soon as she ate a serving of green beans. The traumatizing part for me was their breath: the chemical reaction from all-protein all-the-time was so profound that it would knock me over if my parents said good morning. I knew it was the diet because they both suddenly had the exact same odor from hell. In fact, it was so bad I can still conjure the smell today; it transports me back to my childhood home in an instant. Proust had his madeleines, I have my bacon breath.
I stumbled upon another cornerstone of the Laura Bennett Diet, something much more satisfying than food. After thirty years of three packs a day, my husband wisely decided to quit smoking. He endured two weeks of cold turkey, but I sensed he was faltering and bought him some nicotine gum. Having never been a smoker myself, I didn’t understand the draw of cigarettes, but then I tried a piece of his Cinnamon Surge 2-mg coated Nicorette. It was ambrosia. I suddenly realized that nicotine is the most amazing legal substance of the twentieth century. I was immediately, happily, and willingly hooked.
Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday? Page 10
