Cadillac has a commercial on TV these days that features a sleek car driven by a gorgeous woman who tells the camera that buying a car is like buying a dress. You know which one you want, but you still check out the back to see how it looks. Here the woman tilts her head and says seductively, “Because they hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave.” With that, the camera pulls back to watch the car zoom into the dusky, musky distance. First-rate Madison Avenue shit, that.
What came into my head when I first saw that ad was a day the week before in a Soho art gallery/vintage clothing store. I was standing in front of a mirror in a couture dress by the late British designer Jean Muir, while Daughter critiqued its elegant lines from various angles. She struck a pose reminiscent of Tim Gunn on Project Runway when he surveys what the designers are creating, and with one hand on her hip advised me, “It makes your butt look great.”
Daughter’s boyfriend was within earshot, and along with my silent glee over my complimented behind, I wondered at what point does a guy get used to that brand of womenspeak? I mean, first of all, men don’t go clothes shopping with other men, do they? And they certainly don’t do it for a fun day out with their dad. Maybe the boyfriend was thinking, “If any man in the fitting rooms told me my butt looked great, I’d drop him.” He was lucky he didn’t catch the other comment women shopping together often share, “You’ll need a little more support in that.” Hearing those words might make him return to the store with a posse.
I know a little bit about guys and shopping. Going with Son for back-to-school clothes required me to do the ‘dance of invisibility’ starting about sixth grade. I’d carry those big, baggy jeans around like a mule until we reached the fitting rooms. Then he’d scoop them out of my arms and give me a look like, “If you care about me at all, I won’t see or hear you until we’re in the parking lot.” I couldn’t even ask if anything fit or he’d look so embarrassed you’d think one of us was naked. My job was to wait by the cash register and pay for whatever he was still holding when he got there. When you’re a parent, sometimes you’re the organ grinder, sometimes the monkey.
In contrast, Daughter and I have tried on clothes together since the day she was born. We’ve leaped around dressing rooms in bathing suits calling out, “Can you see anything when I do this? What about this? How about when I bend over like this?” Women shopping together don’t want to play, “Mirror, mirror on the wall.” We want the truth. And yes, we can handle it.
Despite its butt-enhancing powers and attractive price, I didn’t buy that vintage dress the day I tried it on. I had to spend a few days talking myself in and out of it, and then finally pick the rainiest possible afternoon to travel back down to Soho and make the purchase. It’s a process, you know. My friend’s son is getting married in November and we’re all invited, so that leaves a few months to whip my bottom into the kind of shape that will do that dress proud. Coming off the dance floor, Husband might even stop to watch me walk in front of him. Daughter will smile knowingly. Boyfriend will head for the bar.
That taste in Daughter’s Featured Fotos is Urban Flavor
skateboard benefit
skate and destroy
glide
nighttime street
stella mccartney robots
bway’s hip-hop musical In The Heights