So the other evening I was making my way to something cultural, oh I don’t know, a book signing or something. I am a lady of society and therefore was wearing a long coat. Also it is winter outside, and it always will be. I am proud of this long coat, because it is cutting-edge. By “cutting edge” what I mean is that it has an “interesting shape” which is just a fancy way of saying “it doesn’t look that good on me”.

Just because you like an article of clothing does not mean it likes you back. That evening I wrestled with the green beast – no, not jealousy, I mean this coat – squeezing it into new shapes with a belt, sprucing it up, like a Christmas spruce, with different accoutrements.  Something was wrong, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I sighed, giving up on Fashion for the evening, grabbed my bag and … oh. That’s when I saw the problem. In the mirror. The long, green coat, which had always seemed a little bit World War II, Rosie the Riveter out for cocktails or something, had suddenly revealed its true colors. Dusty green, and, well, I looked like a Civil War reenactor. Complete with leather satchel, which had suddenly transformed, in my mind, to my trusty musket case.

Imagination can be simply debilitating.

But maybe I am not making it up. I have written before about the ideal outfit to prevent Unwanted Public Conversation and Streetside Interrogation. Usually it involves a delicate balance between crazy and dangerous. Just looking bad is never enough, as, and I’m sure women everywhere can vouch for – I have never been harassed MORE than when I am greasy, sick, sweaty from athletics, or just generally wearing sweatpants. Set the bar low, men. You will never grab onto it.

I am quite certain that I drew the attention of no men whatsoever, clad in this newly christened Civil War coat. I imagined the jangle of my musket case, the beat of my revolutionary drum, the toot of my flute, and other such notions gathered from the entire span of American History. Plan backfired: the moment you appear brave and confident is the moment you are approached – this time, by a young woman. I was ascending the subway stairs, long coat hitched, prepared for battle. She bounded up next to me, breathlessly. We were all alone on the gray staircase, alone save for the mottled memories of chewing gum’s past, pebbled beneath our feet.

“Excuse me,” she said, confidentially. She was chewing gum and her lips were perfectly lacquered, crystalline and reflective. I began to feel nervous. Why? She looked NORMAL. What could this attractive young girl want with ME, the Civil War veteran? I racked my mind: she could, of course, be insane, or a criminal, but none of those warning bells were ringing in my head – just a strange self-consciousness, the ever-present and subtle Competition of the Female. With these thoughts trumpeting through my mind, like Joan of Arc’s distracting voices, I did not hear the girl’s request. “What?” I said, making a terrible face and squinting at her more closely.

“Would you mind looking at the back of my pants? And telling me if there’s anything on them?”

OH. Um, of course?

She ran up ahead of me, jeans perfect from behind, cinched belt, cropped jacket. Nothing.

“You’re fine!” I called up, and she threw me a dazzling smile, a distant light reflecting from her mirrored lips.

Truths:

-This is New York City. You are never the weirdest person in the room.
-This is New York City. You will never determine who the weirdest person in the room is.
-This is New York City.  You might sit down in fresh chewing gum.
-This is New York City. The girl with a regular coat will ask you to look at her ass in a public place, and you will not expect it.
-This is New York City. There exists a cross-cultural, pan-class, no-holds-barred sisterhood of the traveling pants.
-This is New York City. All costumes encouraged. Accepted. And ignored.