Free Tales from the Back Row by Amy Odell Page B

her point.
    After the seminar, art directors and marketers from MAC Cosmetics, Banana Republic, and many other businesses would return to their offices and create campaigns and mood boards with Edelkoort’s recommendations in mind. And this is how your “going out” wardrobe ends up consisting of blue sequins in two years. This high-level, profound, art-world reading of society is how a trend becomes a trend.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    I often forget that these kinds of conversations about Fashion happen only within the industry. The fashion world is such a bubblethat it’s hard to remember what’s on the outside, even when you do sit in the back row. And what’s on the outside is a whole lot of people who see sweatpants as an item to be worn secretly in one’s own home. I was reminded, some months into my relationship with my boyfriend, Rick, that he and his parents were just those kinds of people when he invited me to dinner with his dad and stepmother. I had met his dad previously on a weekend trip to the beach, so I technically knew him, but not well—definitely not well enough for him to understand why I’d own and wear designer sweatpants.
    It was gorgeous out—sunny but not hot—so I threw on the sweatpants, a white tank top, a silver cuff bracelet, and black high-heeled sandals. I thought I looked completely fabulous—casual yet dressy, cool yet not try-hard, hipster yet not obnoxious.
    I arrived at Rick’s Tribeca apartment where he was hanging out with his dad and stepmom. He wore khakis with a dress shirt tucked in and loafers. His dad was similarly dressed, and his stepmom wore the de facto elegant mom uniform of a slightly drapey but still figure-flattering top and nicely cut trousers with a shiny pendant necklace. (Once women reach a certain age, I’ve noticed, they love nothing more than a giant necklace. I fully expect to turn forty-five with a hubcap hanging from a chain around my neck.)
    â€œHey, sweetie,” Rick said. “You remember my dad, and this is Lorri.”
    After a few seconds of smiling at each other, Rick’s brow furrowed in a way that can only suggest something was very, very awkward.
    â€œWhat are you wearing?” he said.
    â€œWhat? Alexander Wang?”
    â€œSweatpants?”
    â€œOh, they’re on-trend .”
    His dad and stepmom looked on with nervous smiles.
    We walked across the street to City Hall Grill. It’s the kind of place where if you went during lunch on a Tuesday, you’d be surrounded by businessmen wearing suits. On the weekends, you get families wearing polo shirts and boat shoes. We ordered a tower of cold shellfish. I had a margarita in a tall, skinny glass. Rick’s stepmom showed me her sparkly pendant necklace up close. Everyone enthused over the steak.
    Everything was going great, I thought. As soon as the meal ended, Rick’s dad would pull him aside and tell him how bright and funny and good at dinner conversation I am and order him to marry me immediately.
    After we walked his dad and stepmom to their car, we returned to Rick’s apartment.
    â€œSweatpants?” he said again.
    â€œI have heels on!” I protested.
    â€œTo a nice restaurant?”
    â€œBabe, this is New York. Everyone’s wearing sweatpants now.”
    Rick is a man of few words and reveals his truest feelings only when pressed.
    Well, not long thereafter, he was pressed. We were in the middle of one of our first fights on the phone. He was arguing that I didn’t try hard enough with his family and friends.
    I was outraged! I tried so hard with his family and friends. I began listing all that I had accomplished with his family and friends over the six or so months we had been together.
    â€œYou wore sweatpants to dinner,” he blurted out.
    Gasp! I couldn’t believe I was having a fight with a man over how I was dressing. I would never be with a person who told mewhat to wear.