Undecided

Okay, these are either fiendishly clever and adorable or altogether icky. I can't decide. What do you think?

Giuseppe Zanotti Crystal Fishbone Sandal

I think I'm leaning toward icky...

With a Little Mint Sauce

A reader writes:

"I recently bought a pair of gauchos (dark grey tweed) that I am crazy about. They are not swingy or flared. Fairly understated as far as gauchos go. I've worn them with t-strap wedges, light tights, a very feminine top and a kickass velvet jacket. The thing is, I'm worried that as a 41 year-old woman I shouldn't be wearing gauchos. I receive many compliments when I wear them, but really, is it a case of mutton dressed as lamb?"

Well, how wonderful. How wonderful that someone is actually considering age-appropriateness in her clothing! This warms my cockles no end. We've heard plenty in the last few years about how 40 is the new 30, but walking around the mall it seems that 40 is the new 16. (And 13 is evidently the new 25-- my god, what are some of these children wearing? Please! Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be pole-dancers!)

Yes. The Mutton Dressed as Lamb Phenomenon has reached epidemic proportions. I suppose it's the logical extension of our cultural Peter Pan syndrome -- our obsession with youth, our panic at the signs of the natural aging process, our general refusal to grow up. (Did you know there is now diamond-encrusted "Hello, Kitty" jewelry, some pieces costing many thousands of dollars?

($4250 to look like a kindergardner with cleavage. Revolting.)

What's next, life-sized pink plastic convertibles with 8-cylinder engines and daisy-shaped stickers all over them?)

I'm the first to agree that 40 is definitely not what it was thirty or even twenty years ago. (I'm 41, in case you're wondering.) But just because you're a Yummy Mummy doesn't mean you get to throw all sense of propriety out the window. Like it or not, as we grow older (not old, just older) some things are no longer appropriate. Anything with writing across your ass, for example, no matter how Pilates-firm and self-tanned said ass might be. Anything so short you have to put down a towel in order to sit hygienically in public places. Anything that reveals to strangers your preference in undergarments.

(Pop-stardom is no excuse. Poor little dog...)

I don't want us all to become Grandma Moses the moment we turn 18,

(Would someone just buy these two a pony or something?)

and no one needs to carry around a sign saying, "Hi! I'm 41!" I don't want to define anyone merely by the number of years they've been walking the planet, there's much more to any of us than that. But. I also don't want you to make a fool of yourself. Let's just use this rule of thumb: If you're old enough to have a teenager (regardless of whether or not you do), you're too old to dress like one. That means stay out of the juniors department, no matter how fantastic your legs still are and no matter how hard the glittery letters on that t-shirt wink at you.

So. Back to the original impetus for this post: Christy, my guess is you're rocking those cropped pants in a way to make all of us 40-somethings proud, and the 20-somethings envious. That outfit sounds great -- youthful without being childish, hip, and stylish. Just about perfect.

Just don't put on any "Hello, Kitty" jewelry.

Pucci Boots Practicum

So, someone wants to know, what the heck do you wear with the Pucci boots? And that is a valid question, certainly.

The short answer is, something very simple.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a shoe freak. A shoe ho, when it comes down to it. An absolute stone sucker for the Fabulous Footwear. I appreciate shoes as works of art that you can wear; I love them for their adorable, complicated, beautiful selves (the same way we should all be loved, non?). The wonderful little secret about a fab pair of shoes, however, is that they can make anything look good. So when you have something as aggressively fab as the Pucci boots, you can wear something very simple, very basic, very plain -- and you still look like several millions of dollars.

I usually go with black, or black and white. The last time I wore them, it was with this:


Gorgeous wool jersey little Catherine Malandrino number. This is one of those dresses that is a little "meh" on the hanger, but once you get it on your body you never want to take it off. The lovely wide cowl neck is especially flattering to a small-busted gal like me. That gathered bit in the middle hides a multitude of sins. And the skirt is a lovely, full, swingy A-line. It swirls when I walk. Beautiful.

I've also worn those boots with a simple black jersey skirt and a tailored white blouse, or a navy-blue knit dress. I think there's extra kick in wearing something very subdued & even modest with boots that are so out & out sexy. The point is, gorgeous-but-busy shoes call for simple clothing. You can't compete with the Pucci boots, don't even try.

Important Style Clue: When ensemble-ing any ensemble, pick a focal point. One focal point. Then dress around it.

You Gonna Wear That?

We all have them. The Fabulous Item you bought because it was so beautiful/stylish/on sale that you couldn't pass it up. And it's been sitting in your closet for approximately the life span of a sea turtle, neglected, possibly still tagged. Because while it is indeed a Fabulous Item, you don't know what the hell to wear it with.

It's okay. I can help.

Send Style Spy the details (& a pic if you can manage it) of your Fabulous Unwearable and we'll fix it. I'll help you figure out how to rotate that bad boy into your regular wardrobe -- when, how, & with what to wear it. (With the understanding, of course, that I'm probably going to post about it, but you can be as public or anonymous as you'd like -- we're all friends here.)

Bear in mind, I cannot help you with
1. Crocs
2. Velour sweat suits
3. Flip-flops
4. Blue jeans cut so low they require specialized personal grooming procedures
5. Anything with a cartoon character emblazoned upon it.

Some things I just can't get behind. You might as well find this out about me now...

Pulling It Off

These are my Pucci boots:


I adore these boots. I love them beyond reason. They are made of patterned lycra fabric that is stretched over a pair of satin pumps; a sort of ingenious boot/sock hybrid. They are a tiny bit uncomfortable, and not all that easy to walk in (I think it’s something about the shape of the heel – it’s a bit underslung). They are also noisy – there is a thin metal strip that runs vertically down the back of the heel that says “Emilio Pucci” and makes this sort of ringing, clacking noise every time the heel hits the pavement:


All that being said, I don’t care. I love them. They make me happy.

Now, somewhere in the world other people are buying Pucci boots like these, but so far none of those people have crossed my path. Judging from the responses I usually get from others when I wear them, they’re not crossing other peoples’ paths all that often, either. My Pucci boots are greeted with gasps of shocked delight wherever I go. Men have literally dropped to their knees before me, looked up into my face and asked in reverent tones, “Can I touch them?” (This last is an amount of power it is not healthy for a personality like mine to possess, incidentally.)

Of course, not everyone gets the Pucci boots. Some people are downright put off by the Pucci boots. I have one friend who seemed positively affronted by the Pucci boots the first time she saw them. She had the good grace not to say anything, but nothing could disguise the look that flashed across her face. She is a lovely person with many sterling qualities, so I forgive her, but she does not like the Pucci boots.

So. Most people love the Pucci boots. No one else wears them. And here is the comment that they invariably elicit from at least one woman every time I wear them:

“Oh, I love those, but I could never pull them off.”

Variations on this theme include:
"Oh, I just love the way you dress, but I could never get away with it."
"You wear the greatest clothes, but they'd look ridiculous on me."

I'd like for people to stop saying these things to me. For one, while I know full well that I am a bit of a fashion exhibitionist, I'm not exactly running around in this:

(Christian Dior Couture F/W 06, Mr. Galliano you are a genius)

(Although you can bet that if I ever have the means/occasion to do so I'm going to be pretty damned excited.)

No, there is a larger problem here. It baffles me. I mean, why on earth couldn't you pull it off? I'm not magic, I'm not even beyond-average good-looking. I don't have a Fashion Fairy Godmother. (But the post is open if you're interested, Mr. McQueen.) The only thing that seems to separate me from the non-Pucci-booters is my willingness to put the damn things on. So right here in my very first entry of my brand new blog, we're going to crack the code. This is the Big Secret to Pulling It Off, in Three Easy Steps:

1. Put it on. ("it" being fabulous item of clothing or accessory)
2. Look in mirror. Like it.
3. Walk out the door.

Ta-daaaaaaa!!

Smile. Hold your head high. Congratulations. You're Pulling It Off.