With spring in your step: dressing for April showers

348 and Maine street: Crime of comfort: wearing sweatpants in public shows a lack of effort, still not cool

I thought we had evolved beyond this. I really thought we had. It was foolish of me to think so. But I really hoped, for a moment at least, that we could actually be civilized and prove we are better than our neanderthal ancestors or our mouse cousins or our martian counterparts. (I don’t know anything, obviously, about genetics or astronomy.)
What is this atrocity of which I speak? What is this disgrace to our species? No, it’s not that we still can lose whole airplanes in this age when our every movement is tracked and satellites can see an ant take a shit under a house.
It’s also not that the Russians still think it’s acceptable to take any piece of land that Vladimir Putin wants to use to frolic shirtless with his horses or play the so-called most dangerous game with Angela Merkel. And it is not even that anyone still can’t marry everyone else.
All these things are, of course, disgraceful.
But the real tragedy of the human race—one that plays out day after day after day—is that people wake up in this country—at this school even—and of their own free will put on sweatpants and go forth into the world.
We are, it seems, worse than the chimpanzees, for they don’t think it acceptable to drape themselves in fraying fleece and tattered terry cloth.
Yes, here and now I declare sweatpants an enemy of the people worse than Putin and Malaysia Airlines combined. Until last week, Fred Phelps was Public Enemy Number One, but now he is gone and rotting in a hell-hole with Hitler and Bermuda shorts.
If you must wear sweatpants in the comfort of your home when you have a date with Ben and Jerry and Lindsay and Oprah, I have no objection—as long as you don’t tell me about it. But as soon as you step outside, you expose the world to the horror of sweats, and you yourself become a blight on humanity.
Why can’t we be bothered to make a little effort and get dressed and care a little more about looking presentable?
Why must we be comfortable all the time? Why must we dress as if to take a nap, anywhere and anytime?
Comfort, I think, is overrated. It seems as if the only thing we care about is being comfortable. When did we lose the ability to make an effort in our clothing choices? I’m not advocating for a return to corsets, but you could at least put on some blue jeans—ones that are less than 90 percent elastane. I’m not even saying that pain is beauty. But I am saying that beauty is not sweatpants.
I don’t care if you call them yoga pants or jogging pants or lounging pantaloons. I don’t care if Kanye endorses them or claims he invented them. I don’t care if they’re for sale at Bergdorf’s or on the cover of Vogue.
Please, resist the urge to be comfortable all the time, even if Anna Wintour tells you it’s okay. Grow up and put on some real pants. And after you’ve taken off your sweatpants, take them (and your Uggs while you’re at it) and burn them.
You’ll thank me later, when Putin doesn’t confuse you for a sack of potatoes and eat you for breakfast. Instead, he’ll see you as a civilized human being. He still might eat you for breakfast, but you’ll look damn good as he does.

348 and Maine street: Don’t forget it: the survivies style guide

I’ve got so much to say about dressing for Ivies that I’ve decided to make this week’s column a kind of Style Survivies—a guide for sartorial concerns of this very special last weekend in April.
Let’s start with one timeless Ivies dilemma: how to wear as little as possible without freezing to death in this icy purgatory we call Maine.
Now I could tell you to stay warm and be comfortable; that it’s not worth worrying about your outfit when you’ll be standing and dancing and prancing around outside for hours. I could tell you to bring a blanket, or that the key is lots of layers, but the truth is that at some point, no matter what, you will get cold. You’ll survive.
The next great style dilemma of Ivies is this: should you wear clothes you don’t care about, or a fancy outfit?
Here’s the thing: everybody wants to look nice—you have more fun when you feel good about how you look—but during Ivies, anything you wear is destined for disappearance or destruction. I could give you this rule of thumb: if anything you’re wearing is ruined, will that distress you for more than five minutes? If the answer is yes, put it down and pick out something else.
Because, at some point, something will spill all over you and stain your outfit. Is it purple drank? Vomit? Barbecue sauce? It could be any or all of these, but you’ll never find out; it’s a mystery that begins and ends with you screaming, “What the fuck is all over me?”
But if you’re just wearing old clothes (or if you’re drunk enough), this panic should subside in seconds.
Also, any removable item of clothing—which at Ivies is almost everything—is likely to get lost. If you realize something’s gone within an hour of losing it, and you spend anywhere from 15-75 minutes retracing your steps, then you’ve still got a chance, of seeing it again. If you haven’t seen it in hours, or it is a pair of sunglasses, odds are you’ve lost it to the Ivies abyss.
No one likes losing things, but it’d be a shame to let it ruin your day. Very few people like stains either, but I personally think they add character and individuality to any outfit.
I cannot overstate this however: sunglasses are the most likely thing to go missing. So even though croakies usually strike me as something that should only be worn by middle-aged whitewater rafting guides, this weekend I might revise that stance.
Because no matter what, at some point, the sun will duck behind a cloud—maybe for minutes, maybe for hours—and you will want to take your sunglasses off your face. And that is how you’ll lose them.
“Should I wear a hat to Ivies?” you may ask, “And if so, what kind?” I could tell you that maybe you should wear a hat, and, really, it could be any kind from sombrero to fez. But remember: at some point, you will want nothing more to do with your carefully-chosen chapeau, and, having no where to put it (see above about things getting lost).
I could advise you on Ivies footwear. Is it time for some fun spring sneakers? The season opener for Sperrys? Warm enough for sandals? Or should you stick with those boots you’ve been clomping around in all winter? There are pros and cons to all these approaches, weather being as variable as it is. No matter what, at some point you will probably decide you wore the wrong shoes. But as long as you can dance and frolic in them, you’re good.
I could tell you that the most important Ivies accessory is not your hat or your sunglasses, but the tricked-out water bottle you’ll use to stay, um, hydrated. And I could beg you not to put any drinks with milk in it, because you will regret it, and whomever you spill it all over will probably kill you.
I could tell you all these things, but I won’t. Because for once, I don’t care.
It’s Ivies. Just have a good time and do whatever you want. Ivies is a time to take risks (with your style) because you can play them off as drunken jokes. Plus, very few people will remember. Happy Ivies.

348 and Maine street

With spring in your step: dressing for April showers

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Evan Horwitz

Columnist

April 10, 2014

And then, suddenly, spring was upon us. It happened without warning while you were sleeping, like Lindsay and Oprah’s friendship or Kimye’s Vogue cover.
There seems to be some confusion as to what spring is. Perhaps it is easier to say what spring is not: It is not winter and it is not summer. Shocking, I know, but I have it on good authority from scientists and my kindergarten teacher that spring is, in fact, it’s own season.

I thought this was common knowledge, but it turns out, like the whereabouts of Amanda Bynes or the Malaysia Airlines flight (my theory is that she hijacked it), spring is unclear.

It seems, thanks to global warming toying with our seasons like Blue Ivy plays with her Bugattis, we’ve forgotten what spring is. Well it’s time spring got the respect it deserves.

What spring is not is wearing the same clothes you’ve been wearing all winter, only fewer of them.

Flannel, for example, is strictly a winter affair, and just because you can now wear it without a coat does not mean you should. In fact, you shouldn’t.

The same goes for your bulky winter sweaters, your down vests and your fleece-lined pants. There is a time and place for all these things. But that time is not now and the place is not here.

A word on shoes: I appreciate that spring is a particularly tricky time for dressing your feet. Puddles abound and navigating your way to class without falling into one is a treacherous game. But this does not mean you should continue to wear your winter boots.

We know that Bean Boots are a horror and an assault on the senses, and that has never been more true than now.

Wear Hunters or some other rain boot if you must. It is the rainy season, and your feet are probably going to get wet. That is, they are going to get wet unless you are able to use your eyes and see the puddle coming up ahead and, imagine, avoid it.

If you can look where you’re going—any preschooler can teach you how—you can wear whatever shoes you want. Maybe something a little less clunky and a little more fun.

And then, on the other hand, we have the people who think that just because the sun is finally shining, it is suddenly and magically a day at the beach in August.

Here’s the thing: it isn’t. So take your flip flops off and go to class.

When the temperature slips above fifty, I know it is tempting for some of you—though I really can’t understand why—to wear shorts all the time, always and forever. Do not do this. You look extraordinarily foolish and overeager.

Shorts should be approached gradually and with caution, and only after the thermometer has topped 65.

But if you must wear shorts, please, for the love of Oprah and all that is good, keep to muted colors and pastels, and throw out the ones that fall in the same family of hues as road signs and stop lights.

And, really, I’m looking out for your health and comfort.

Dress for a summer heat wave, and you’ll freeze to death after the sun goes down.

Bundle up for a winter squall and you’ll have a heat stroke midday. The only way to survive spring is to dress appropriately for the season.

So put on your bunny suit, pick up a basket of eggs and matzoh, and hop on your merry way.

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