For the past year or so, going back to Elkhart, Indiana to visit my parents has been feeling less like going home, and more like going on vacation– vacation to a largely barren territory inhabited mostly by a rather simple, if not uncouth, indigenous people.  It’s relaxing, actually.  When I climb down from the train platform, hop into Dad’s little Ford truck, and demand to be taken to the nearest Taco Bell, I can feel the pressure of my “pre-graduate stress disorder” slightly lessen.

Here, my ever-wandering eyes needn’t bother searching the sidewalks for stylish pedestrians.  I can go for days without so much as glancing at a Women’s Wear Daily, and no one would know or care.  No one in Elkhart talks about resumes, portfolios, or internships.  Even my parents’ number one concern, in regards to me. is whether or not I am getting enough to eat.  

Still, in the back of my mind, is the one gnawing question that can keep me awake at night when I’m lying on the pathetic little cot that replaced my bed after my room became Dad’s home office:  As I near college graduation, how do I know if I am heading down the right path? 

My most recent trip to Elkhart provided a bit of insight into my future from a most unexpected source– the past.  Sitting around the dinner table, as my parents heaped mountains of food onto my plate, apparently under the impression that I am wasting away, they asked me how my long-time friend Ariel was doing in her Political Science classes.  I told them how much she seems to enjoy this major– quite a relief for them to hear, since the girl, their unofficial third daughter, has changed her concentration four times.  I was chewing and musing on Ariel’s final choice when I suddenly remembered Utopia.  

When we were quite young, my best friend and I didn’t play “house” or “doctor”.  We made believe that we were mermaids, diving into her pool with scrunchies around our ankles, or ancient Egyptians, performing exotic burial rituals, or our beloved “Greek gods and goddesses”, reenacting the ancient myths that we knew by heart.  At the height of our imaginative years, we made our greatest departure from the stereotypical game of “house”.  We started playing “country” and called it Utopia.   

We didn’t carelessly dive into our little game.  Oh no!  Before we could scamper about the yard with floral bedsheets tied around our waists, we sat in the tree fort, colored pencils in hand, huddled over The Book.  

As I watched, Ariel drew the outline of the imaginary land into the first crisp page of our brand new sketchbook, coloring the flatland green, the mountain ranges brown, and the rivers and lakes in blue.  She marked the borders of the three kingdoms that made up Utopia: one for her, one for me, and one for my little sister.  (Naturally, my sister had to have her own region to rule, but, as she was only five, she wasn’t allow to contribute much to The Book.)  Before Ariel was satisfied with her part in the creation of Utopia, she would also write out the country’s population, give it’s size in kilometers, name and pinpoint the three capitol cities as well as the other cities of importance, describe the political climate of each region, describe the atmospheric climates, and list all the major imports and exports.  Might I inform you that at that time, we were only in 2nd grade, and in school, were just beginning to learn the locations of the continents.

The Book was then handed to me.  As the best artist of the bunch, (though little sister would eclipse me in that talent just a few years down the road) my first duty was to sketch portraits of each of us– the imaginary us, that is.  Ariel was blue eyed and buxom, with blonde hair down to her outrageously curvaceous hips, while I was long and lean, with loads of crimson ringlets and emerald eyes.  

Then came my favorite part.  I would fill page after page with fashion illustrations.  I drew elaborate Elizabethan court gowns for each princess, according to her personal style preferences: flirty and provocative for Princess Ariel, sporty and unfussy for Princess Anna, and cute and playful for Princess Elizabeth.   I also drew three dinner dresses, three day dresses, three morning robes, three nightgowns, three lingerie ensembles (no joke), three swimsuits, three business suits, three riding habits, three sporting ensembles, three winter coats, three autumn outfits, three summer playsuits, and three spring numbers.

Only then were we ready to start playing, that is, after we took a moment to establish amongst ourselves which outfits we were going to “wear” first.  Unfortunately, we spent so much time in the planning phase, that we didn’t even get to play that first day; Ariel’s dad made us come in and wash up for dinner.  We didn’t mind, we could return to Utopia the next day.  And, as it turns out, we returned, in spirit, 14 years later, too.

A map of Utopia by Ariel

Dresses by me

How did you figure out which career you wanted to pursue?

Therefore, I believe body image is a very relevant issue surrounding style, as well as  hot topic in the fashion industry.  So I thought I would share my personal story. As always, feel free to comment and give your experiences as well.

The Story of My Thighs

Ask any group of women which part of their body they are unhappy with, and I bet that most will point to their lower regions, in other words, their butt and thighs.  I don’t know what it is about that area that seems to attract fat cells, cellulite, and consequently, disgust- but I must admit that I am one of these women.  I have an unhealthy relationship with my thighs.

My thighs and I have a long history together, nearly twenty-three years, in fact.  I can’t, however, pick out the exact date that our relationship began to loose shape, moreover, I’m not sure exactly when I first discovered them.  During my prepubescent years, as well as in early puberty, my thighs were just an extension of my legs– legs that were strong and powerful and helped me outrun all the boys in gym class.  I was a tomboy and dressed the part in big, baggy jeans that allowed me to play sports and climb trees.  Although it was quite unconscious, I was hiding my thighs from myself and others.

This didn’t last too long; the gams inevitably came out when I entered middle school.  Stare-at-my-ass-tight flares and baby tees were the style in that pool of raging hormones.  Oh, did I fall victim to that socially and sexually imposed dress code!  This two year period was the only time in my life that I had ever wanted an article of clothing just because everyone was wearing it, so strong was my desire to fit in.  Thirty dollars for a plain cotton tee with the words “Abercrombie & Fitch” printed on the chest?  

“Mother!  No one will EVER talk to me if you don’t buy it for me!”

Though Mom wouldn’t buy me the coveted brand of jeans, the $75 Silvers, it wasn’t a total loss.  Suction-stretch pants were available at any price range.  I had a pair of paper thin, pocketless Mudd jeans that showed off every last curve of my rear.  It may as well have been on a pedestal.  Since, of course, my thighs were also on display, why was I not self-conscious about them, then?  Because I was 14, weighed 90 pounds, and cared only about being stared at by the boys!

I probably didn’t have thighs in middle school.  I might have sprouted them during my freshmen year of high-school, around the time that girls learn that their bodies’ sole purpose of existence is for comparison.  My thighs were no longer just a part of my legs.  They were now smaller-than-Chelsea’s-but-bigger-than-Ashley’s.  They were now my reason to follow my friends to the salad bar everyday at lunch, bypassing the line that served lovely, grease-soaked cheese pizza.  My thighs were now two ugly tumors, marring the appearance of an otherwise decent body.

As high school progressed and my focus on a career in fashion intensified, so did my lust for long, lanky supermodel legs.  All I saw when I flipped through my fashion magazines–besides exquisite clothes that I’ll never be able to afford–were stick-thin thighs attached to a gleeming, toned body.  I had a love/hate relationship with my Vogues.

Things didn’t get any better when I got to college.  The girls just got twiggier, the media got grittier, and the guys, who once drooled over any girl in a mini, got cockier!  I was made all too aware two summers ago, when I was hanging out at the beach with my gang.  It was breezy and warm, and I was enjoying our afternoon excursion, dancing to the music that was playing over the loud speakers.   Seated on a towel next to me was my so-called friend Sean, the spoiled son of Gap’s ex-CEO, who never had to work very hard at making friends because of his money and initial charm.  He looked up at me, pointed at my upper thigh area, and said with a smirk,

“You know, they’ve got a cream for that.”

The good news is that I no longer associate with that guy.  The bad news is that this story doesn’t have a nicely packaged conclusion, complete with a bow on top.  I’m still not particularly fond of my thighs.  I’m still waiting for that magical day when my body and I finally get along.  Of course, it may be me, and not my body, that is being stubborn.  Let’s be honest, I wear a size 1/2 pant.  My thighs can’t be as lumpy and gigantic as I perceive them to be!  Although I wish that one day they will decide to shrink three inches, all I can really do is learn to live with my thighs- and hit the gym twice a week.

So, I am toying with the idea of supplementing the normal street style content with user-submitted posts during the winter.  It would be similar to LOOKBOOK (see my links) in that you would stylize yourself, take a picture, and send here! 

What I would like to know is…
Do you like this idea?
Would you submit pictures?
Have any other thoughts or ideas?

It’s been a little more than a week since I launched my precious brainchild–this blog– and I knew from the beginning that I had my work cut out for me.  Though I’ve obviously captured some fashionable femmes, and seen many that I was unable to photograph, fashion-finding on the streets of Chicago does take some time and effort.  This got me thinking:  why is this so?  Why is Chicago seen by the Who’s Who of fashion as largely without style?

Perhaps one of the reasons has to do with the city’s roots, it’s history.  It started as a highly industrial city, and it seems that the attitude of the era hasn’t changed much since then.  Efficiency and practicality are the laws of the land; no fuss, no muss.  Aesthetics take a backseat, if they aren’t ignored altogether.  You should see the looks I’ll get from the bustling businessmen-types as I’m hobbling along in skyscraper heels!  Yes, they may be inefficient, and yes, my little cocktail hat may be impractical in the downtown wind tunnels.  Still, I think that Chicago needs more beauty and cheer– especially heading into the dreary winter months.

Any thoughts? Opinions? Answers to the question posed?