“She was nuts,” the Beverly Hills saleswoman reported a year later. “I tried to be nice and told her that the pants wouldn’t shrink and that she should buy the small. My luck, no more smalls were available in the Beverly Hills store. I was about to tell her that all I had to do was call the other Barneys stores and find it in a small, but then that crazy woman went ballistic, going on and on about how her life was a failure and her boyfriend had just dumped her and she lost her job and all she wanted was those pants to make her feel better.”
A rumor had circulated through the store that the blond woman in question had only that morning donated a wardrobe full of halter tops, cigarette pants, and other provocative items of clothing to the Salvation Army. This rumor was backed up by a volunteer working at the organization stating, “Yeah, that lady came by and just kept dumping stuff, then she’d go back to her car and get more stuff and dump it on me. I mean, I know we’re the Salvation Army and all, but what are we going to do with all these halter tops?”
In an effort to keep the peace that Barneys was known for, the saleswoman called the New York store, found the Juicy Couture pants in a small, and handed the miserable blond woman a tissue, assuring her that she would have them as soon as they came in.
“So then she was all, ‘Which day?’ the Beverly Hills saleswoman continued. ”I didn’t know which day. How am I supposed to know? Do you see anything about me that says ‘postal worker’? So I went over to my manager, who had already heard that woman screaming, and my manager said, ‘Have them FedExed to the woman’s house so we can get that deranged lunatic out of the store and be done with her already.’ So then the miserable blond lady left, running down the stairs toward the ground floor, shouting out to me and my manager, ‘I bought a four-thousand-dollar Vera Wang couture gown here once! You people should have a little more respect!’ ”
The miserable woman, who had only recently become one of the casualties of the Internet crash of 2001, decided to sleep in the next morning, as she forgot there was anything worth waking up for. At noon, the woman opened her apartment door to find a “While You Were Out” slip from Federal Express. Seeing no reason to continue with the day, with the exception of several trips to her kitchen to retrieve the Sara Lee pound cake and SpaghettiOs she ate at various times throughout the day and night, the woman headed back under the covers of her bed and stayed there until the following morning.
After dawn’s “early” light awoke the slumbering, gloomy woman at 11:30 the next morning, she went to retrieve some leftover SpaghettiOs. Her doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” She sniveled in her crumbling state.
“FedEx,” the male voice answered.
Dressed in only a tank top and Gilligan & O‘Malley underwear from Target, the woman signed for her package and shut the door without saying thank you.
She opened up the package to find Juicy Couture black linen drawstring pants in a size small. After putting them on, the woman barely took them off for a year.
“I offered to buy her another pair when she came to my birthday party. I thought they looked cute on her,” said a woman who identified herself as Felicia, a friend of the downhearted woman.
“I didn’t think it was right for her to wear them to the job interview I got her,” added Susan, another friend of the despondent woman. “And while we’re on the subject, six-inch heels with Juicy Couture black linen drawstring pants are not appropriate to wear under any circumstances, especially a job interview!”
Yet it was reported that everywhere the saddened woman went, the pants were sure to follow. From cashing her unemployment check to Wednesday movie matinees with fellow ex-Internet employees, the black linen drawstring pants became a source of comfort after agonizing job interviews and deplorable dates that never went anywhere. Frequently paired with a Calvin Klein white ribbed tank top that the pants affectionately called “Tanky,” the duo soon began to enjoy their newfound grimy life. They enjoyed getting up each morning/afternoon and relished experiencing where that day would take them. Most times, it didn’t take them anywhere, but anything was better than sitting in that bare closet, hung on a hanger attached to a concave pole, which was rumored to have gotten that way from the weight of the piles of clothing the woman had donated to the Salvation Army several months before.
Three months into Black Linen Drawstring Pants’s life, the first in a series of tragedies struck. While attending the 2001 NBA Finals basketball game between the Philadelphia 76ers and the Los Angeles Lakers at L.A.’s Staples Center, the depressed blond woman had a moment of glee and she shouted in exhilaration as Allen Iverson led the 76ers to a 107-101 win in overtime.
“Suckers!” the woman angrily shouted to the crowd of yellow-and-purple-wearing Laker fans around her.
As the crowd began to hiss and jeer and throw various junk food wrappers and half-filled cups of beer, the woman suddenly became frightened and leaped out of her seat to escape from the stadium, catching Black Linen Drawstring Pants on the armrest of her seat and creating a tear on the side of the pants. The next day, the woman took the pants to her dry cleaner‘s, who quickly sewed up the hole and insisted on dry-cleaning the pants for free to compensate for of all the business the woman had given them the previous year.
The second in the series of tragedies occurred when the woman went to throw some trash away on a rainy night and accidentally left her keys inside. As she waited for her friend Heidi to come with her spare keys, the woman stayed at her neighbor’s apartment, along with the neighbor’s cat, Friskers. As the blond woman innocently tried to pet the feline, Friskers became alarmed by the rainwater dripping off the woman’s body, so he opened his paw and dug his nails into Black Linen Drawstring Pants, which prompted another trip to the dry cleaner’s to patch up the frayed hole they had suffered in the ghastly incident.
A week after returning home from their second stay at the dry cleaner‘s, Black Linen Drawstring Pants were awoken from their closet at 4 a.m. and worn for a trip back to Philadelphia.
The woman cried into her parents’ arms, sobbing, “I’m a failure, I’m a failure,” which her parents heartily denied.
“You’re going through a rough patch,” her father said. “Everything will work out, I promise.”
“But those pants,” her mother said, “those pants have got to go.”
The saddened blond woman took their words to heart and headed back on a plane toward Los Angeles. Three days later, she was hired by the Promo House, an entertainment company, to write promotional ads for upcoming television shows.
The woman entered her apartment that evening and grabbed Black Linen Drawstring Pants. She began to put them on when, sadly, tragedy struck for the last time.
As she pulled the drawstring together, the string could no longer take the pressure and broke in two.
The woman, now in high spirits and feeling as if her life might be back on track, took off Black Linen Drawstring Pants and sighed.
As she threw the pants into the trash can, she said these final words in memoriam:
“Thank you, dear Pants for your comfort, your reassurance, your durability, and your strength, which got me through a difficult year in my life. As you continue on to that big department store in the sky, may you find the peace and joy you so deserve. I will miss you, my friend, and I promise to think of you often.”
To quote W B. Yeats’s “When You Are Old”
And bending down beside the glowing bars;
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
RIP:
JUICY COUTURE DRAWSTRING LINEN PANTS
2001-2002
24
wenty-four-year-old women rock!
I’m not supposed to use the phrase “rock,” though, my twenty-four-year-old work friend Kristen told me. Evidently, that’s very out. Since I became friends with my young office buddies at the Promo House, I’m constantly remin
ded of new sayings that are in and sayings that are out.
“Rock!”
Out.
“That is off the hook!”
Out with a major cringe look.
“Bling-Bling.”
Set up a firing squad.
The whole thing makes me feel out of it in a dumb, cute way, but pathetic at the same time, since I’m ten years older than these people. It’s not that I’d become some old fogey in my thirties, but when you start working with people who are ten years younger than you, it can sure make you feel that way.
On my first day working at the Promo House in 2002, I wore a pair of black rayon pants and a white V-neck cotton sweater that I got on sale at the Gap. Being an office dweller for so many years, I knew not to buy anything new before I started working, because you just don’t know what the style of the office is. When I arrived at the Promo House on my first day and took a look around, it was clear to me that I was overdressed and possibly overaged. The most spiffed-up woman I saw was one of the twenty-four-year-olds, wearing a Juicy Couture terry cloth sweatsuit that actually matched, both top and bottom, in baby blue. Flip-flops were the choice shoe among the who’s who at the Promo House, but they loved my six-inch heels and often asked to try them on. Watching this parade of hip and trendy fashion, all I could think of was my stupidity in donating all my cool, sexy clothes because a Democrat in Republican’s clothing had caught me in a yearlong lie. These girls would have loved that wardrobe. Why did I feel that I needed to punish myself so severely?
With the exception of my BFFATO (best friends forever at the office), Paula and Julian, and me—the three senior executives at the Promo House—every other person who worked there was twenty-four years old. And with the exception of my wardrobe, they all looked up to me, which I loved and, as it so happened, I looked up to them. Most were women and not girls, incredibly sweet women who were as ambitious and full of energy as they were trendy. I loved it when they asked my opinion on where I thought they should take their careers, or my advice in dealing with a new boyfriend.
Of the twenty-five people who worked there, it seemed like someone had a birthday every other day and they were always twenty-four. Even when the year passed, and we celebrated another year gone by, yet again, that person was turning twenty-four. Sometimes when I’d see the twenty-four-year-olds walk in wearing knee-high boots with short skirts, frilly tops, matching earrings, and bracelets, I wondered if it was a place for producing promo spots for television, radio, and print, or an MTV Spring Break Special. It also made me want to return to an old stomping ground I’d wondered why I’d given up on—Urban Outfitters—but it only made me feel older when I tried on the stuff and felt like one of those mothers who wears her daughter’s clothes to make them look cooler. Those mothers weren’t fooling anyone and, even from the dressing-room mirror, I could tell, neither was I. I opted for the alternative Urban Outfitters, the newfound Urban Outfitters of my generation, the VHI Spring Break Special of Urban Outfitters if you will: Anthropologie
“No, sweetheart, you tie it like this,” HeidiAnn (no hyphen, no space), the twenty-four-year-old assistant showed me as she wrapped a scarf around my neck. It took four more wearings before I got the knot down. When I wore a new T-shirt, HeidiAnn, who had previously been to school for clothing design, took the opportunity before a meeting with a hip music channel to cut my new T-shirt into a halter top, accentuating my better body parts with diamond-shaped holes and covering up the worse ones with extra fabric. She was like Picasso with those scissors, and when I showed it to the five women you meet in Los Angeles, each gave me a T-shirt and their measurements to take to the office. HeidiAnn made $250 from my clique for her good work.
Each time I bought something that I thought was hip and with-it, it was already out of style by the time I got to the office. These twenty-four-year-olds knew their trends, and I came to rely on it. They wore designer jeans that were so in, I hadn’t even heard of them.
“They’re called Seven for All Mankind,” Jenn with two n’s explained. “See, it’s spelled out,” she said, showing me the tag on the back of her jeans.
“Paper Denim & Cloth,” Kristin explained as she mouthed the words slowly and as loud as she could, as if I were hard of hearing given my age. “See how it’s lighter on the top and darker on the bottom? That’s so the ass doesn’t look as big.”
I had no idea that three-quarter-length coats were so 2002 and velvet cropped jackets were the here and now. A constant question that lurked in my brain as I saw these young women arrive at work in the morning with silk babydoll T-shirts and bell-bottom jeans was, “Where did these girls get these great clothes? Had they heard about the halter-top surplus at the Salvation Army?” I could have sworn one of them was wearing an old outfit of mine.
I chose to confide in my co-thirtysomethings, Julian and Paula.
“Oh my God,” Julian whispered in his distinct, excitable tone. “Isn’t it crazy? It’s all I ever think about. I spend more time thinking about what I’m going to wear to work than what I’m going to wear out with my boyfriend.”
“I had to stop breast-feeding and put Matty on Similac,” Paula admitted. “It was taking too long to pump in the morning, and I needed to spend that time finding something to wear!”
We all agreed that the tipping point of the office was Kelsey, a twenty-four-year-old junior executive who set the Promo House barometer on appearance and presentation. From her Marc Jacobs dresses to her Joie skirts, Kelsey’s daily outfit was a sight that Paris couture should have taken note of. She was not to be missed, and she knew it. Kelsey was the only twenty-four-year-old I found to be difficult to get along with. Even though she was ten years younger than me, she had that edge of slickness that just screamed “most popular girl in her class,” and even though I was her superior, I felt inferior to her and spoke to her as little as I had to. Her blond hair never had roots or a single split end in it.
“She must get a touchup every week!” Julian concluded.
“She must bathe it in mayonnaise,” Paula added. “How else can you get that shine?”
She was by far the head of the twenty-four-year-olds; all you needed to do was hear what they said about her behind her back to know she was envied. Since the girls had made me an honorary twenty-four-year-old, it was only right that I felt the same way.
“I heard Kelsey shoplifts from Saks,” Breva whispered, coming into my office one day.
“So that’s why she’s got such nice clothes!”
“I know, RIGHT?” she exclaimed. “And I also heard she sells coke to pay for the ones she doesn’t steal.”
“That is so low-rent!” I quietly roared.
“Oooh,” Breva said as if she’d bit into a lemon, “ ‘low-rent’ is a phrase from like twenty years ago.”
Just then, Kelsey walked into my office, hysterically laughing while flipping her blond tresses. Breva and I braced ourselves in fear that she might have been listening.
“So wait,” she said, laughing as she entered my office, “Julian just told me you donated a closet full of halter tops because a guy dumped you? Are you an idiot or something?”
I looked at Breva for any kind of help, and when I saw she wasn’t going to give any, I gave Kelsey the best answer I could.
“Yes, evidently I am.”
The thing I admired most about the twenty-four-year-olds was their ability to disregard any body-image issues. I could not understand how Breva, for example, all 5’1” and 160 pounds of her, could have mistaken the rolls of flab and back fat sticking out of the back of her pants for a sexy detail. The thing was, none of the other twenty-four-year-olds ever mentioned it—only Julian, Paula, and me within the confines of our own thirtysomething alcove of talk, and none of us would ever let the twenty-four-year-olds know. The ability to show flabby flesh, we all agreed, was truly admirable. If I could have written out the conversations the five women you meet in Los Angeles and I discussed about the little piece of flesh on one’s stomach
or the way the top of one’s thighs stuck together, it could fill volumes. The twenty-four-year-olds had no problem with it, however, and I wished I had the guts they did. If it was a generational thing and not just a Promo House thing, God bless evolution.
There was only one time that I ever disagreed with the twenty-four-year-olds.
We were all sitting in the conference room sharing a pizza when Kelsey started the debate.
“I just hate Madonna,” Kelsey said. “She is so fake and I hate everything she wears.”
“She is a fashion icon,” I said as I cocked my newsboy hat, just like the one I’d seen her wear in People magazine the week before.
“Ugh,” Kelsey said as she stuck her tongue out. “Now Britney,” she said, “Britney could do no wrong in my book.”
“She is so trashy!” I replied. “Her clothes are too small for her and her hair is so dried out. With all that money, couldn’t she at least afford conditioning treatments?”
“That’s her style!” Breva retorted as she pulled her T-shirt down to just above her love handles. “Britney doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her. Madonna is all about what people think. She does everything for show.”
“Madonna dressed a generation!” My co-thirtysomething BFFATO Paula announced as she straightened her red string Kabbalah bracelet that she got at Kitson for $40.
“Britney made it OK for us to express ourselves any way we want!” HeidiAnn shot in.
The debate went on for another couple of minutes until I excused myself from the room. There was no point in going on.
We were two generations who would never understand what it was that made the other want to emulate these women who taught us it was all right to he who we wanted to be, no matter what anyone else thought. That was the deciding difference—the rigid, inflexible conviction that would never change.
Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown Page 13