The style issue.
I have always been attracted to men and women who have style. Most of my friends are hip, cool, stylish people. Needless to say there are a few exceptions who have crept by (they know who they are) but in general my friends look good, have nice things and know how to put it all together. And while I am fully capable of recognizing style in other people I myself appear to be devoid of it. And here is why – I am frugal, lazy and afraid of taking a risk. It is possible to sustain a sense of style if you happen to be afflicted by any one of these qualities – but all three together are the kiss of death.
If you ever call me ‘cheap’ not one of my near and dear will leap to my defense. Fair enough – I am loath to spend any money on clothing and prefer to wait until someone is getting ready to throw out their old stuff. Or I shop at The Gap. I am unwilling to give any thought to what I put on – it is simply too time consuming and I believe that exercising 4 times a week is about as much as I can put in to my appearance. And last but not least as a fan of the beaten path I stick to the old way of doing things which in my case is throwing on a pair of jeans and calling it a day.
And so I went through life thinking that style was something I was born without, like big tits it just wasn’t meant to be. Then a few months ago I was set right by my sister-in-law Heidi. She pointed out that even the worst dressed human has style. It may be shitty style but is still a style of some sort.
I am a lesbian grandfather. She announced.
How do you know that? I asked.
Well if you are a woman with really short hair, wear jeans and trousers a lot, and own more than one article of clothing that is made of tweed or a tweed-like material then you are a lesbian grandfather.
Needless to say Heidi is neither a lesbian nor a grandfather but she had certainly zeroed in on her style and by doing so I noticed she had managed to hone it to a point where it actually flattered her. This was an eye opener! All I had to do was really identify my style (now that I was convinced one existed) and then work it to the point where it was the best it could possibly be. Not to over-do the ‘tits’ analogy – but it would be like putting a padded, push-up bra on very small boobies.
But how was I to identify my style? Like all the great mysteries of life I was convinced it would ‘come’ to me. And it did.
Three weeks ago I made the three hour journey from New York City to the Sivananda Yoga Ashram in Woodbourne – a beautiful little town in the Catskills. I had signed up for a ‘yoga weekend’ which meant that I could either do absolutely nothing or I could participate in the yoga and meditation sessions that took place twice a day. I arrived on Friday at noon. The ashram sent a car to fetch me and one other New Yorker from the bus station. We were chauffeured to the ashram by Richard who wore a wide brimmed straw hat, knew everything about the ashram and was clearly some sort of institution himself. Like me he was a performer (in his case a musician) and so we bonded a little. After he checked us in I gave him my card and encouraged him to check out my blog.
I then went along to check out my room. The living area was a no-shoe-zone and so we had to leave our shoes in a shoe-rack at the front door. As I divested myself of my beloved green Crocs I realized that I was amongst my people. Clearly Crocs and similar clog shaped shoes were the foot-wear of choice around here. I was already beginning to love this place.
I checked in to my room and decided to take a short nap before the 4pm yoga session. At 645pm I heard a tentative knock on my door. It was my New York friend who was afraid I would miss dinner and had come to wake me.
Still submerged in sleep I rushed to the dining area and grabbed what little food was left. I then sat self-consciously in a corner hoping no one would notice that I had not had the decency to wash my face or brush my hair. Nobody cared. This place was even better than I imagined. After dinner I had a full hour to kill before the meditation session and so I strolled along to the yoga boutique.
Like all women I enjoy shopping for exercise clothing – I consider it a necessity rather than an extravagance. But this boutique was not Lulu Lemon. Instead it was stocked with the most unfashionable pajama-type pants known to man. I loved all of it. The shop was managed by Vyasa – a white man who had taken an Indian name. Vyasa was the most Zen looking person I had ever seen and I was getting to see a lot of them that evening. He sat there like a big Buddha, large and in-charge. After much deliberation, and with Vyasa’s help, I decided on a pair of fuchsia cotton pajamas that were shaped like track-pants from the 80’s, with the little cuffs at the ankles and everything.
I decided that the pajamas would be more comfortable than my jeans for a two hour meditation and chanting session and so I asked Vyasa if I could wear them out of the shop. He said I most certainly could and added that he thought I had made the right choice as far as color was concerned.
Up to that point I was dressed in my usual clothes – a beige and white cowl-neck sweater that is a little big for me but very comfortable and warm, jeans, striped socks and green Crocs. This combo is something most of my friends would not be caught dead in. As I swapped my jeans for the fuchsia pajamas I wondered what they would think after they had finished vomiting.
I exited the stores to a barrage of compliments from Vyasa and headed to the meditation room. I found myself a spot at the back and sat cross-legged on a cushion. Damn these pants were bloody comfortable.
Ohhh look she bought the pants! They look amazing!
The voice belonged to Gowrie who had checked me in earlier that day and who was sporting a similar pair in green. In fact almost everyone there was dressed in some variation of what I had on.
And I llllllllove your shirt! Said Gowrie’s friend, referring to my beige shroud that my husband hates.
As I accepted this out-pouring of kindness it hit me – I was Yoga Ashram girl! That was my style. I was thrilled with this discovery and the next two hours flew by as I chanted, sang and chanted some more.
The next morning Richard found me after breakfast.
I read your blog. Very raunchy, very funny! He has read about my distaste for blow jobs.
Thank you. I preened.
Tell me something – do you like guys?
I will admit that his question took me by surprise and my response may have sounded a little shrill.
Yes! Ofcourse! I like them very much I’m even married to one.
OK. He nodded. Then it is really funny. I mean if you didn’t like men then it would have been kinda funny but if you are married then it is really funny.
With that he shuffled off leaving me with a fairly comprehensive idea of what my style was. I was Lesbian-Yoga Lady. Yep. That is what it was.
Now I just had to figure out how to make it the best it could be.
sexy lesbian yoga lady
Hilarious. Yes, we all have a style we can’t escape regardless of how hard we try. Even when I make an effort to be more current, fem, or glam– I just end up looking like I am in costume –like the spring where I ended up looking like Steve Irwin, the crocodile hunter, because linen pant suits and safari shirts were in and I was growing out an unfortunate hair cut. Crikey.