Archive for August, 2008
Are You a Sexy Iceberg?
I‘m not what you‘d call a “closet crier.” I’m a closet warrior; it’s a battle getting dressed every morning. So, it wasn’t surprising that one Sunday afternoon I found myself in my walk-in closet yelling at my clothes, with my friend, Marie, by my side.
“Explain to me, again, your sexy iceberg theory,“ she said looking confused. Marie is a image consultant. She has the sophisticated style of a Sharon Stone and a hint of hilly billy twang in the odd word, a result of growing up in the South. She had spent 28 years in the modeling industry, both as a model and agency owner, and was doing her best to understand me.
Am I too old for Betsey Johnson?
“The sexy iceberg theory,“ I said sniveling, “ Says it’s not what you wear that makes you sexy, it’s who you are and how much you like who you are.“
“So why are we here again?“ asked Marie as she looked around at the dissary of clothes, shoes, and belts.
“I need your help testing it,“ I explained arms akimbo. “I want to put together two outfits. A really sexy one and a not so sexy one. Then I’ll compare people‘s reactions.“
Marie rolled her eyes. “Y’ll talking dumb, ya know that? You don’t have to test the truth. Just be yourself.“
I gaped at her. The idea seemed preposterous. I had no idea what it meant to dress like me.
Marie put her hand on my shoulder as if to steady me. “Look,“ she said, “I’ve been around the most beautiful women in the world. Sexy comes from a woman’s honesty, intelligence, and attitude, both about herself and how she treats others. It’s the depth of her integrity, not the depth of cleavage that counts.“
“If that’s the case,“ I said pouting, “Why do so many of us spend so much time and money trying to dress like someone else’s definition of sexy?“
Marie thought about it. “Girl, haven’t you figured out, comparing yourself is the path to insecurity?“ she said shuffling through a rack of my clothes. “And that’s is exactly when you stop trusting yourself.“ She pulled out a black lace-trimmed Betsey Johnson top with a bold red rose print and inspected the label. “What we really need to be doing is getting rid of things that don’t reflect the real you—like this here thing.“ She held the top in front of my face. “From your Bohemian phase?“
“I love that top,“ I whined.
“It’s great,“ said Marie, “If you’re in your twenties. Same for this,“ she continued holding up a black vinyl jumpsuit with a dozen zippers.
“But Marie,“ I begged, “I think Michael Jackson’s signature is on one of the cuffs.“
Marie threw her head back and roared. “Are you having a mid-life clothes crisis?“ She said smiling. “Because I’m not seeing much that reflects a woman in her forties.“
I dropped my head in shame.
“Pam” she said dumping the jumpsuit on the Goodwill pile. :Be the sexy iceberg, that powerful presence that can sink a Titantic without doing a darn thing.”
I crunched my face and looked at her. “That sounds weird,“ I said.
“You get my point.“ She kept sorting through my clothes dropping one item after another on the ever-growing mountain of reject clothes—the tomboy T-shirts with skulls and crossbones, the embroidered jeans, the career suits with padded shoulders, and even a few extra padded Victoria Secret bras.
“You know,“ Marie continued, her back facing me, “I saw a shot of Christie Brinkley during her divorce court appearance. She was wearing a khaki pencil skirt, black belt, and a crisp white form-fitted blouse. Her hair and make up were simply styled. She was in turmoil but her entire essence said class and internal fortitude. And she looked sexy!“ She turned to look at me. “You getting my drift.“
“Yeah,“ I said. “I’m also getting that you solved my problem of what to wear. Nothing.“ I checked out the few remaining pieces she had spared.
“Don‘t worry, we’ll do some shopping,“ laughed Marie. “Love yourself, girl, and the right clothes will follow. Clothes like DKNY and Calvin Klein.“
Trust Marie to make shopping sound like a spiritual calling, I thought to myself. But who could argue with her? Let your clothes reflect your essence and you can’t help but be beautiful.
What do your clothes say about you? Do they reflect who you truly are or some one else you wish you could be? What’s your personal style?
(2 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)
Loading ...Does Dressing Sexy Make You Sexy?
Does dressing sexy make you sexy?
They say clothes make a man but what do they do for a woman? Does dressing sexy really make you sexy? I was thinking about this the other weekend when I was getting ready to do the unthinkable — leave the house. These days I’d been staying close to the TV, spending time with Netflix. So, when I got a call from a few friends who wanted to shoot pool, I figured, why not? The girls (“Saving Grace” and “The Closer”) can wait.
We met around 9PM at a busy billiard hall in the college part of town. The place smelled of rancid beer mixed with synthetic carpet and was already crowded. The only available pool table was beside two scantily dressed women in their thirties. I think they were playing pool. An entourage of guys hovered around gawking at the tall, slim one with long black hair and clothes so tight you could see every muscle twitch.
I confess, I was gawking, too. She was stretched over the pool table, her butt jutting out like a flag, fumbling to get her cue in position. Her friend, a short girl with a beer belly, was yelling pointers over the deafening music.
I walked over to Frank, the intellectual in our group (he had a PhD) and bumped him with my hip. “Hey, Dr Frankie,” I asked tilting my head at the black-haired girl who was now flirting with one of her admirers. “Do you think that’s sexy?”
He glanced her way. “Very hot,” he said without hesitation. Frank was married with teenagers. I couldn’t believe he’d find her attractive.
“What’s your problem?” said Frank as I shook my head disapprovingly. “Jealous?”
“Of that?” I squealed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Frank bent over to line up his shot. I turned to Bill, a swarthy looking attorney in his early forties who considered himself an expert on women.
“Bill?” I said leaning into his ear. “Would you date her?” I pointed in her direction. Bill turned and scrutinized her.
“Not only would I not date her,” he said after a pause. “I wouldn’t touch her with an 8 inch pole, if you know what I mean.”
“Frank said he’d use a 5 inch pole, if you know what I mean,” I said.
Bill laughed. “What does Frank know about sexy? He’s a Dad.” He thumped his chest authoritatively. “Trust me, girls like that don’t know jack about sex. She’s got all the signs.”
“Signs?” I said curiously.
Bill looked at me. “Okay, first sign. She’s dressed like a stripper because the show is all she’s got. If she really felt sexy, she wouldn’t have to go around screaming it to the world.” I nodded my head in agreement. “Second sign,” Bill went on, “She’s got a chubby friend. Means she’s insecure. Can’t handle competition.”
“Wow, that makes a lot of sense,” I said my eyes wide.
“I think about this stuff,” he said watching Frank sink a ball. “I’m single.”
I rubbed my forehead perplexed. “But if it’s not the clothes, what makes a woman sexy?”
Bill held up his finger signaling me to wait. He took a shot and sunk the ‘8’ ball.
“Nice,” I said.
“Thanks, I’m good.” said Bill pulling out a stool. “Here’s my theory about sexy,” he continued. “Sexiness is like the tip of an iceberg. Which means it depends on what’s below the water.”
I wasn’t following. Icebergs and sexiness just weren’t going together for me.
Bill smiled. “Look, this is easy. If a woman is real, you know, authentic, and feels good in her own skin, confident–“
“You’re talking about the iceberg part?” I clarified.
“Exactly.”
“So if that all is there,” I said slowly, “The tip of the iceberg is automatically going to be sexy?”
“Pretty much,” said Bill. “So long as she’s not faking it.”
Veronica yelled at me to stop yakking and shoot. I sidled up to the pool table a million questions running through my mind. Is the secret to sexy really as simple as loving yourself just as you are? And if it’s true for women, wouldn’t it be the same for men? I decided this was too important to take just Bill’s word on. I’d put it to test. But how?
(2 votes, average: 4.50 out of 5) Loading ...
