Paused in the middle of bashing my way around the garden yesterday, because, and I’m sort of afraid to say this aloud because I’m pretty sure it will cause a snowstorm, the sun came out. Totally did the northern thing of rushing out without sunscreen or hat, getting burned like a knave and a fool, and then wandering around looking for various creams to remedy my idiocy. Further persecuted myself by watching a young French person on youtube explaining how you only get your skin once. Nodded my head sagely and whispered, “Sweetie, you probably see the sun more than once a year, so back off me with your awesome skin care, and water drinking. I regret nothing.” A little bit of leathery skin is a price I’m willing to pay for the reconvening my mental health. Where was I? Oh yes, paused to watch the video of William and Kate coming out to show their baby to us all.
Wow. She was wearing the heels. For real, her shoes were so tall, and she looked as cool as a cucumber, as usual, baby beautiful wrapped up in snowy white blanket. Rewound–wait, that’s probably not what its called any more–the clip over and over to relish the cheer of the crowd, the cheerfulness of the waving, and the astonishment of the shoes. Then went over and watched clips of Melania Trump and the significant person of Emmanuel Macron standing by, in similarly tall shoes, in the grass, gazing upon the efforts of their illustrious world leaders in the planting of a symbolic tree. Then they turned and walked back, steadily, across the grass, in the heels.
Anyway, all that is to get to this gorgeous old black and white film of New York City from 1911, sound added later. Some clever person, a century ago, went around and just shot scenes around the city, catching people walking up and down, driving in cars, driving in carts, avoiding trains, occasionally staring right into the camera. Watched it several times particularly for the clothes of the women.
Because the price I pay for the ease of my modern life, for the technology, for the ontological equality, for all the gorgeous food brought by night to replenish bright effulgent displays to tempt and nourish me, the price I pay is not wearing all those beautiful clothes from 1911. I stuff myself into uncomfortable trousers and shoes that are meant to make me suffer. It’s a sign of my liberation, to be physically uncomfortable and feel miserable about my body literally all the time.
And no pockets either. Or if there are pockets, they’re in the wrong place. And no big hat. And yoga pants that now have mesh portions, making them see through, so that the wind can whip right through and freeze you to the bone–I don’t have those, but I’ve seen them and wept.
That’s the war on women. Wear terrible clothes that forgive nothing about you, and wear torturous footwear, and freeze while the man is plentifully clothed.
And now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go pull everything out of my closet and curse the darkness. Tinkerty Tonk, and I mean for it to twinge right up your calf and into your sciatic nerve.