When it comes to style, I follow Polonius’ advice to his son upon seeing him off to Paris: “Neither a borrower nor a lender be/But to thine own self be true. “  My late mother, Josephine Premice, the chicest woman I’ve ever known, treated every foray out of the house as an occasion to dress, even if it was a trip to buy laundry detergent at Sloan’s Supermarket.  She brought me up in the belief that every day offered an opportunity to express my uniqueness through wardrobe.  Just as one didn’t imitate other people’s bad or slovenly habits (nose picking and smacking gum leap to mind,) one didn’t blindly follow trends, or douse oneself in a new perfume simply because it smelled good on the girl next door.   My mother would not have won any awards for financial fitness but she did amass a magnificent collection of gowns and daytime pieces that she passed on to me.  Once I had my daughter, I justified the purchase of many an overpriced item as an investment in a future heirloom.  Alas, friends, that was in the old economy.  Now, in the new, I have retired my credit card (Let us all observe a moment of respectful silence in honor of all the purchases that will never be….)

       In truth, I ceased to be so quick on the Amex draw a full year before “depression 2.0” when the purchase of a particularly impractical mock crock purse made me face the fact that, though I had successfully avoided the family curse of alcoholism, I was  a stone, two-sample-sales-a-month-rack-up-the-miles-on-credit-card shopaholic.  My habit had begun many years before when I was a young and restless show runner in LA and decided after yet another break up with an unreliable man to shop my way to happiness.   Rather than drown my sorrows in a bucket of Haagen Daaz French Vanilla, I took myself to Charles Gallay (the elegant and now defunct purveyor of  Azzedine Alaia to “le tout Hollywood”) to buy a  sexy, flaunting-the-wares spandex dress once a week (I could retire now on the fortunes squandered on these itsy bitsy dresses.)   The habit continued well into marriage, just with different, and arguably more tasteful merchandise.   I shopped when I traveled, I shopped when I was worried about cash flow.  I bought a little black dress every time I felt blue.  I could have deluded myself that all was well, after all, I paid my bills in full every month and no one went hungry.   But, clearly, I was filling a void (I won’t bore you with a description of that particular black hole, dear reader, that’s what I pay my psychiatrist to pop the “no doze” and listen to.)

       Finally, as the forty something year old mother of a young child, I felt it was no longer endearing or responsible to act as though I had a money orchard in my back yard (I don’t even HAVE a back yard.)  Wanting to leave my daughter an inheritance consisting of more than a Winnebago crammed with designer frocks, and my best wishes, I went cold turkey.   I didn’t allow myself to darken the door of my favorite boutiques, tossed invitations to sample sales directly in the “round file,” and never ventured beyond the makeup section of Saks Fifth Avenue, my favorite New York department store.   I had gone through a similar period of self-abnegation ten years prior, when my husband and I renovated our apartment, and my money needed to go towards faucets not fripperies.  I thought at the time that I would reach a new consciousness about the spiritual emptiness of shopping, and learn to be content with what I had.  Alas, I did not reach that summit of enlightenment.  On the contrary, the minute I felt I could afford to, I yelled “Emptiness, schmemptiness,” made a mad dash to my favorite stores, like a relapsed wino on a bender.   This time around (a full decade, and many, many gowns later,) however, I found a new pleasure in denial and overcoming the feverish desire to buy for the sake of buying.  I reached if not the Everest of enlightenment and contentment, at the very least, base camp. And, let’s be honest, over twenty two years of power shopping in boutiques from Los Angeles to Hong Kong, to Loehmann’s Back Room had equipped me for anything but a Safari in Africa and meeting his Holiness, the Pope.    Somehow, I don’t think I’ve made the Vatican’s short list so, in this lifetime, there’s no need to scour the city for the head to toe black lace required of such an audience.

[Photo at left] This ensemble is a combination platter: a Christian Dior “Keyhole” dress purchased for 200 dollars at a sample sale, combined with a chiffon scarf from Giorgio’s of Beverly Hills (RIP). The dress was reduced to nothing because it was missing the little leather belt intended to fasten it at the neck. I wear it with a variety of scarves, necklaces, each one creates a different effect. The handbag is by the Goddess: Judith Lieber.

       My favorite time to dress, even in the era of financial sobriety and restraint, is evening because it is a time of magic, and mercifully low lighting for someone my age who has yet to succumb to Botox injections to fill up the rivulets forming on her brow!!!!  Low lighting also helps to hide a multitude of follicular sins (read: greys when one hasn’t had time to make it to the hair colorist.)  More than anything, a black tie soiree is great theater, with hundreds of magnificently dressed performers.   Like my mother, I’m a traditionalist.   In my book, black ties call for long gowns, unless you’re in you’re twenties and aiming to find a “husband for the evening.”  I believe you can wear the same thing twice, in fact multiple times, just not to the same places with the same people (another one of my mother’s rules.)  I purchase gowns that will stand the test of time, not those that scream the year that they were in fashion (remember all those hideous taffeta confections from the ‘80’s.   Can you say “bon bon about to take flight?”)  I’m also a devotee of accessories, more is definitely more, they make the outfit.  A sumptuous cut velvet shawl, and a jewel toned satin minaudiere, for example, bring a simple black dress to life.   I seek less to match colors and more to harmonize.  A collector’s approach to amassing accessories will save a great deal of money over the years, and guard one from the “garanimals” effect, e.g. the leopard print pumps purchased to go with the dress that was in THAT year.

       In terms of daywear, motherhood has made me a devotee of pants.   While I adore skirts and suits, they simply aren’t functional when you’re dealing with someone under five feet tall.  Again, accessories matter, a beautiful silk scarf used as a belt, fun jewelry, and now that I no longer lug diapers around, great purses (although each and everyone of mine is now a de facto Cheerios granary.)   Slacks are not synonymous with slovenly.   There is no need to surrender chic to practicality and personally, I prefer a degree of formality.   For a woman of color, “When and where I enter, the whole race enters with me,” that’s why we’re always overdressed.   I remember once being at a dinner party seated next to a very pretty, petite blonde.   She began a story with the words “I ran into Tiffany’s in my sweats.”   I don’t recall the rest of the tale because all I could think was, “There’s a sentence I’ll never utter.” I wouldn’t go out in the street in sweats unless someone’s life hung in the balance, but I certainly couldn’t afford to go to an expensive boutique thus clad for fear of being trailed by security.   Yes, sadly, even in the age of the Obamas, I think it would be an invitation to maltreatment.  Beyond that, my DNA steers me away from the tracksuit, cargo pant section of the store.  Old fashioned? Definitely.  Up tight?   Perhaps.   But when it comes to clothes, “I’ve got to be me.”  Who are you?