When is a Problem Not a Problem? When It's An Opportunity.

Reader of the blog Melissa recently sent me this question:

I tore a ligament in my ankle a few months ago and have been sporting white, ever-so-lovely athletic tape on a daily basis since. This hasn't been an issue during winter, the season for multiple layers of opaque tights, but the season for wearing dresses and skirts without attracting weird looks is coming up soon. Not only that, but I have a few occasions coming up very quickly where I need to wear a dress in slightly fancier circumstances (where neither heavy winter tights nor knee-high boots, my winter solutions, are appropriate).

On a daily basis, I have white tape reaching in a semi-spiral half-way up my shin. It wouldn't be as much of an issue, but I'm a 23-year-old student and have to worry about things like making good impressions at job interviews and as I try to get into grad school. Unfortunately, just leaving the tape off isn't one of the available solutions! And, as I mentioned before, there are occasions where I will be expected to wear skirts or dresses.

Do you or your readers have any suggestions about how best to rise to the challenge?

I let this sit in my inbox for a while because I didn't know how to answer it. It's not that I didn't have any suggestions for covering the tape; it's that I didn't have good suggestions for getting Melissa to stop WANTING to cover the tape, and I think that's the real problem. It's totally natural to want to hide anything that might stand out, or call unwanted attention to yourself, or that seems like a flaw. However ... NOT covering things up is, long-term, the better solution.

I don't want to be all "Disabilities give you strength!" because, frankly, that is the kind of bullshit able-bodied people tell themselves to feel better. It sucks not to have full use of your body. That's just true. (With the possible exception of being Deaf, which if you are raised in a Deaf community, doesn't seem to be as bad -- but then again, I'm not Deaf, so what do I know?)

However, any kind of difference gives you the opportunity to learn how to deal graciously with weird looks and clueless people, and THAT is a life skill whose importance cannot be overestimated. And luckily for Melissa, her White Tape of Difference is purely temporary -- she doesn't face the grinding prospect of a lifetime of people asking "How'd you do THAT?" or saying "Wow, that looks like it hurt," and so on. So you practice your "Oh, thanks for asking!" response (the one that doesn't actually answer anyone's question) and remind yourself that just because someone asks you a question, You Don't Actually Owe Anyone An Answer.

It also helps you realize that Really, Honestly, Nobody is Looking That Hard. When you go out of the house with white tape, or a honking big zit, or a birthmark, or so on, you soon realize that for every person giving you the double-take look, there are four, or five, or ten who casually glance your way and never think of you again. Ever.

So, my advice to Melissa is not to worry about how the taped ankle looks. It looks fine. (Remember, you don't owe anyone pretty, either.) And if I were interviewing someone for a job (something I've done a fair bit of) or grad school (something I've never done), I'd be perfectly fine with it, and I'd probably give extra points to someone who dealt with it in a natural and matter-of-fact way, instead of apologizing for it: e.g., "I recently injured my ankle (or use a cane, or have a service animal, or whatever); are there elevators at the interview site? Could you please arrange for me to have extra time between interviews? Thank you for your consideration in this matter."

(Melissa, you can also use this as a way to screen OTHER PEOPLE: anybody who is a jerk or dismissive about your injury or disability is a person you do not want to work for or go be a student of. Believe me. Life's too short.)

So, this may not be the answer you wanted, Melissa, but it's the only one I've got. Good luck!

Book Review: Things I Wish My Mother Had Told Me

Things I Wish My Mother Had Told Me: A Guide to Living with Impeccable Grace and Style is by Lucia van der Post, who is (was?) a columnist for the Times of London. (The book came out last year in the UK, I have the new Americanized edition.) I hadn't been a reader of Ms. van der Post's (and was dismayed to find that she thought the Marc Jacobs "Tribute" bag was "witty"), so I surprised by how much I enjoyed her book.

First off, Ms. van der Post is a woman of a certain age, and that age is old enough to have grandchildren. I have never understood why people would want to read fashion advice from someone younger than they are. (Everything looks good on people who are twenty; getting fashion advice from someone who can sleep in her makeup without consequence is like getting a restaurant recommendation from a fourteen-year-old boy.) Fashion advice should be dispensed, ideally, by elegant silver-haired matriarchs, who know all and have seen all ... like Ms. van der Post. Even if you aren't trying to disguise middle-aged spread, or worrying about wrinkle creams, well, forewarned is forearmed, I say.

And although the book is jam-packed with useful information, like where to buy retro sunglasses (Cutler & Gross in the UK) and mothballs (Lakeland) and hats (nyfashionhats.com), the real value is in her insistence that fashion is about happiness ("Completely pragmatically, one observes that those who dress prettily, elegantly, or glamorously have a lot more fun than those who don't.") and that you shouldn't take yourself too seriously ("Only small people take offense," she says, quoting her father).

In addition to the usual topics of style advice books (hair, diet, clothes, accessories, manners, and men) there is an excellent section on home decor, which doesn't assume you will have hot and cold running decorators or a fifteen-room manse to decorate. (My favorite house advice was to buy slowly, one by one, things you really love, so that you don't waste money on temporary solutions ... even though I am the queen of the "let's buy this $5 Ikea lamp until we figure out what we really want.")

But the worklife section is a bit ... antediluvian. "Usually -- but by no means always -- it's in the family's interests for the man's career to be given most attention ..." Really? C'mon. You get the feeling that the "by no means always" was inserted by the editor in a desperate attempt to ward off the stink of irrelevance. And Ms. van der Post's musing on whether any "... alpha woman (or any woman, come to that)" would want a "meek, docile, beta house husband"? Sheesh. If all "housewives" aren't docile (and we know they're not) why should we assume all "house husbands" are?

Actually, when reading through it, I kept having the feeling -- not a bad feeling, but a strong feeling -- that this could be one of those advice books from the early 1960s, like Dariaux's Elegance, reprinted. If it weren't for the URLs (and the odd mention of Uggs or Jennifer Aniston) there wouldn't be all that much to set it apart from those earlier books. And even the year's time since publication in the UK makes for some of those "window on an earlier era moments": Ms. van der Post recommends "Pepe jeans" as a good present for a "Young Boy," as well as "iPod socks."

But really, that's as it should be. Some kinds of advice are timeless (iPod socks notwithstanding), and if we have to republish it every decade or so under a different name with different quirks, I'm happy to read it every time. And really, who doesn't need to be periodically reminded of some of Ms. van der Post's maxims, like "clean and tidy less, and read more." Or "Never go out with a man who doesn't make you laugh." Or "Use the things you love every day. It's never worth saving things for a special occasion."

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I get a lot of email now from people who are new to sewing, and who want (for some reason) my advice. Just last week I got a very kind email from Elizabeth, who wanted me to help her choose between two patterns.

Now, usually, my advice is just to buy both, to avoid regret, but I went and looked at her pattern choices. Her choice B was unremarkable (and a little difficult for a first project) but her choice A ... I fell in love.

If her choice A had been in a romantic comedy, I would have been in the role of matchmaker, and this would have been the perfect guy ... who then asked to be set up with my best friend. Hijinks would ensue.

But, I hear you asking, how lovely WAS choice A? Here, you tell me:


Now, giving advice to newbies is a sacred trust, and even though the dress was up for auction on eBay, I couldn't go and snipe it! That wouldn't be sporting! So I appeal to you all -- does anyone have a copy of this for sale? B36, by preference?

At least I am consoled by the thought that one new sewist is going to have a very happy first dress!