Style Virus

Heard today on Oprah by the British co-author of What Not to Wear, "There is a style virus in America!"

This got me thinking of whether or not I've fallen victim to this virus. My personal elan would certainly be a healthy mix of matchy-matchy meets shabby chic. While New York isn't Paris or Milan on the fashionista frontier, few would argue that there is a dearth of style in this metropolis. But fashion victims are everywhere as Markiv and I discovered walking up Bowery on Saturday as a young, frizzy-haired, enormous-shoulder-pad wearing youngster in polka-dot tights passed us making us realize why we would never revisit the leg-warmer decade.

My penchant has never leaned toward the label-conscious machinations of urban trust fund babies or surburban trophy wives, given my limited choice in the 0-8 size market and general disdain for spending more than $100 on any given item of clothing--much to Tracey's chagrin. I have prided myself on a well-groomed, polished appearance in public. Lately, in lieu of dressing for work I've taken to lounge wear and casual wear as my uniform of comfort--couple that with flats and shapeless, warm jackets and you see why I fear I've caught something stylistically viral.

This is not something I would have considered if not for D'Souza's dapper dress sense and brutal honesty. The man likes his woman dressed up or dressed for work and jeans and baby tees just aren't cutting it. Not to mention, I've never dated a man whose fashion sense superseded mine. Back to traditional gender roles 101. I'm forced to step it up with no real incentive given my meager financial standing and the reality that heels are just not grocery store appropriate--even in Manhattan--unless one is coming directly from the office or picking up beer on the way to a party.

While I'm not wearing high-waisted, tapered-ankle mom jeans I'm still suffering from a disease that appears to be sweeping the nation--albeit a condition symptomic of apathy-I'm plagued by the style virus.