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TIME: Almanac of the 20th Century
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<text>
<title>
(Nov. 08, 1990) Style:Ode To A Tyrannical Muse
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990
Nov. 08, 1990 Special Issue - Women:The Road Ahead
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
PUBLIC IMAGES, Page 60
STYLE
Ode to a Tyrannical Muse (or Why I Love and Hate Fashion)
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By Johanna McGeary
</p>
<p> A passion for fashion is a dangerous thing. It can, if
you're not careful, fool the eye into betraying the body. Just
when you think it might be safe to go out in a thigh-high mini,
the fashion oracles say it's the year of the catsuit. I'm going
to wear a neck-to-toe unitard in public? No way. I have only to
think ladies' room (worse: airplane lavatory) to dismiss such
a pernicious garment from my wardrobe. What sensible woman wants
to reveal her every--and I do mean every--curve and bulge?
And who wants to look at them?
</p>
<p> Let me confess: I love fashion. I study the magazines; I
shop; I spend more than I should. To look chic is to feel great.
No matter how we women yearn to be valued for other qualities,
we invest a considerable amount of our psychic selves in our
appearance. We're not all born beautiful, but we can make the
most of what we've got. That's the art of style: improving on
nature. Fashion helps us shape that sense of style, give it
definition, freshness, sparkle, zing.
</p>
<p> But I hate fashion too. It's a tyrannical muse, demanding
time, energy, money, discomfort. There are mornings when I look
at my well-stocked closets and have nothing to wear. My husband
can't understand this. The only time he has nothing to wear is
when all his shirts are at the laundry. There is something so
enviously simple about male dressing: a suit, a shirt, a tie.
Our notions of how these should look don't change much with the
seasons, and barely with the generations. So how wrong can a man
go? How unattractive can he feel?
</p>
<p> Female fashion is exhausting. All that variety from which
to choose the few items that will transform you into a knockout.
All those racks in all those stores: it takes hours and days to
find the perfect thing. Once home, the garments crowd the
closet, challenging you to put together the right pieces for the
right occasion--and the right mood. There's a mutability to
clothes that makes them appealing one day, appalling the next.
</p>
<p> All that agonizing choice is made no easier by vast expense.
I try to keep up with the mode, and it costs--just ask my
husband. But the skyrocketing prices are pushing fashion beyond
the reach of willing buyers like me. I was leafing through a
fall fashion magazine the other day, plotting my seasonal
purchases. There was a charming outfit by a no-name designer in
delicious shades of pink and red (this is the year of color,
remember): mohair coat, $725; cropped jacket, $575; knit dress,
$230. The total for the ensemble: $1,530. That's not including
the $68 wool scarf, $15 ribbed tights or the who-knows-how-much
gloves. I bought a pair of stretch velvet leggings last year
for $80--not exactly dirt cheap but top-notch fashion for the
money. When I see stretch velvet leggings in the magazines for
$500, I wonder what the other $420 is for. That's not style,
that's trying to sucker me.
</p>
<p> Maybe it happens every fin de siecle, but lately fashion
seems to slide further and further from reality. Most women I
know have two kinds of clothes: work clothes and play clothes,
in evening and weekend varieties. If women are not tending
children at home, the clothes for work outnumber all the rest.
So why is it that most designers of any fame produce garments
intended for some weird fantasy life? I'm looking at a
crotch-length strapless tweed dress topped by a blazer. Even in
the permissive world of journalism, where am I going to wear
this number? To interview the Secretary of State? I understand
fashion's need for the new, but it gets less and less possible
to find something modish I can actually wear.
</p>
<p> Fashion is painful. Women suffer pinching, scratching,
binding, twisting in the name of chic. Push-up bras give you the
lush bosom of the '90s, but the underwire cuts into your rib
cage. Panty hose are hot and, frankly, sweaty. High heels give
your hips an alluring tilt, but after a 10-minute walk, your
feet scream. Short skirts are young and kicky. But how young do
you want to look when you can't sit comfortably?
</p>
<p> I have learned from experience to say no to fashion. We're
stuck with bras until a kinder form of support comes along. I
liked long skirts because I could wear knee-high stockings
underneath. And I simply refuse to wear hose in summer. So what
if the oracles say I'm not properly dressed? I won't buy a
catsuit this season, and I bet few other women will. While I
refuse to trade in my pumps for Reeboks, I don't buy shoes with
heels higher than an inch or two, and I still manage to have
fashionable feet. (Pointy toes long ago revamped my
metatarsals.)
</p>
<p> But however hardened I've become, I succumb to fashion's
lure. I swore I wouldn't wear short skirts again: I have photos
from the last age of miniskirts; I remember trying to bend and
sit without total exposure, and I remember how cold it was. And
yet, as I dragged out my winter clothes, my hems looked
downright dowdy. I'm busy shortening them again. See what a
betrayer is the fashion muse? I hate it. I love it.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>