Do This In Private #1: Nose Picking

There are a host of things that need to be done in private: clipping nails, copulation, makeup application, and nose picking. Public figures and people in automobiles tend to be most inclined towards this egregious activity. I'm not referring to people with tinted windows either. Apparently the clear window is supposed to act as an invisible barrier. The driver is under the impression that no one is able to see him digging for gold.

As is the case with those folks who like to clip their nails on the bus or subway, public nose picking puts one on the same level as your garden variety serial killer. Truly, a public nose picker is no better. They're both menaces society and care only about themselves. These same public nose pickers will tell you, "I was just scratching my nose."

Just scratching your nose? Not drilling for oil? Not scratching an itchy brain? A true shame in the de-evolution of decorum. What's worse is that these people will be all too eager to shake your hand, sample the food on your plate; etc. Not only is it in poor taste. It can kill you. A poor old chap in the UK accidentally died from chronic nose picking.

The proper thing to do—if you sincerely can't wait to excuse yourself to the WC—is to take out a lovely (preferably monogrammed) handkerchief and pretend to blow your nose. Do a quick poke and swirl and get rid of the offending booger. Whatever you do, please be discreet about it.

Imaginary Basketball

Style Therapy isn't just about how to dress and wardrobe efficiency. It's also about decorum: civility, protocol, and deportment. Good old fashioned etiquette. And etiquette isn't solely based on how to eat an artichoke. It's doing everything in your power not to behave like, for lack of a better term, a damn fool. Damn fool conjures up a stronger image than merely fool.

Yesterday, while waiting for the train, I discovered a damn fool on the train platform. He was listening to a song on his iPod that he was singing along to. But that's not what made him a damn fool. If I have an exceptional tune on one of my playlists, I may hum along as well.

What made this young man a damn fool was the fact that he was playing imaginary basketball. Yes, imaginary basketball. Instead of one-on-one, it was one-on-no one. He dribbled and made three point shots. I knew they were three point shots because he threw his pretend ball while standing on the edge of the platform and tried to make it across to the other platform. He didn't stop there. His repertoire also included crossovers, pick and rolls, and ali oops. Standing on the yellow caution portion of the platform is dangerous when the train is bolting down the tracks. But practicing your jump shot is another matter altogether.

His imaginary solo game wasn't offensive. It was his acute case of attentionwhoritis, not to be confused with labelwhoritis. Every time he slam dunked his imaginary basketball, he'd turn around to see who was watching. I must admit he caught me looking at him a couple of times. I wasn't in awe. I wanted my face to be read as, "Aww, you poor, damn fool." I'm not sure it worked. Right now he's probably gearing up for the Imaginary Basketball Northeast Semi-finals.

Keeping It Casual?

When I entered the workforce at the turn of this century, my first job was at a major book publishing house. Jeans weren't permitted during the week, but we could wear them on what was known as Casual Friday. A couple of years later I landed a spot at an advertising agency with a relatively conservative dress code. A code, by the way, that was strictly enforced. Forget Fridays, jeans weren't tolerated on any day of the week; much less t-shirts, open-toed shoes, flip flops, or sneakers. Casual Friday wasn't in the company lexicon and violators would be sent home to change-whether you lived in Park Slope or Parsippany.

I'd attended a prep school from grade six through senior year, so I was used to regulated dressing. If a girl's skirt wasn't grazing her knees, she was called into the guidance counselor's office. She would then be given an embarrassingly long skirt from a collection kept in the administrator's office. While we wore ghastly navy uniforms in polyester, we still knew ugly when we saw it. These loaner skirts were akin to something the wife (or wives) of a religious cult leader might wear today. They had been worn so often that the color had faded, clashing with the matching polyester navy vests we also had to wear. It would have behooved the offending girl to have worn the proper skirt to begin with.

With the exception of four years of sartorial freedom at university, most of my life, up to the point of the advertising job, included some by-the-book standard of dress. While the agency was a more creative atmosphere than a law firm or financial institution, it was still very much corporate.

Then came the town hall meeting. When the head of our company retired, the new boss held an assembly where the direction of the company was announced. When the floor was opened for questions, a young man asked (at the top of his lungs) if we'd be allowed to wear jeans. Our new chief said, "I don't see why not."

The flood gates opened wide. Anything that was forbidden before appeared overnight. Grey New Balance trainers seemed to have grown on everyone's feet like moss. And jeans accompanied them beautifully; in particular, the ones of the feline variety with whiskers. Oddly enough, it was the men who favored distressed denim the most. And for those who weren't fond of sneakers, the jeans would inevitably be paired with latter-day Jeromey Rome style dress shoes.

The women were no angels. One art director took the mullet principle of "business on top, party on the bottom" and applied it to her work uniform. The term uniform is used deliberately. She never deviated from her quite tight button down oxford, black mini skirt, and towering black patent stilettos.

With the lax rules in dressing came a Romper Room atmosphere. Scooters became the mode of transport for some, and with that zipping and zooming came louder chatter and outrageous chotckes on desks (myself included). A stock photo house sent us enormous posters of their latest offerings. A coworker took one of Mexican actor Gael Garcia Bernal and had it lamenated and mounted. I kept it on my desk until I left.

A couple of years later, when I worked in the design department of a contemporary clothing firm, I'd often buy new pieces from our line. While walking to work one morning, I saw a young woman wearing a shirt I'd purchased not too long before. It was definitely a shirt because it was merchandised with the other tops in the flagship store. On this particular day, the coworker, who I had never met before, was wearing it as a dress! It barely covered her cheeks. I'm assuming she stood on the subway ride on the way over.

She accessorized with a chain-link belt in gold and patent heels. I've already got prudish, granny tendencies, but for me, that was over the top. Not too long after that, a twenty-something female stopped by for a job interview. She was wearing what would have been a flesh-colored suit had she not OD'd on the spray tan. The young candidate also wore matching, nude patent platform heels. Her hemline, too, also barely covered her cheeks. The top button of her blazer was unfastened, allowing for a generous amount of cleavage.

When I started Stanton + Williams Style Therapy, I had no intention of consulting corporate clients. I wanted to keep it private; but it was instances like those two that made me reconsider. Nowadays a lot of companies don't have dress codes on the books. And if they do, they're not enforced. It's hard to reprimand someone for dressing inappropriately if they've never been taught. These two young ladies were on the younger side and had probably never worked for companies with a conservative corporate culture.

My message to the employees and the companies isn't, "Don't wear this, wear that." I want people to understand the power of clothing. We form judgments of each other within seconds, solely based on what we're wearing. It's imperative that we know what message we may be sending when we leave our apartments either looking like a hot mess, a fashion victim, or a paid escort. It was Chanel herself who said, "Dress shabbily and they remember the dress. Dress impeccably and they remember the woman."

The Muffintopitis Pandemic!

In the August 28, 2005 edition of the New York Times, William Safire described the muffin top as "the roll of excess flesh spilling out primarily in front but possibly all around." At some point within the past 10-15 years, slovenly sloppiness became commonplace. I'm not sure if the blame lies with the grunge movement, business casual, or more form fitting clothing on pregnant women.

I didn't start noticing this proclivity for untidiness until Hollywood moms-to-be started showing off their bumps. While I'm not a proponent for any kind of belly-baring (whether it's six-pack abs or layers and layers of rolls), an expectant mother gets more of a pass. Frankly anyone else exposing their gut shares the physical aesthetics of an abusive drunkard. Wife-beater anyone? Pasty-haired paunchy potbelly in a stretched out ribbed white undershirt with beer stains down the middle. That's the mental image the ubiquitous muffin top evokes.

I remain under the impression that no self-respecting woman would leave her house with her gut spilling out over her low rise jeans. Low rise jeans. Yes! They contributed to this dreadful mess of a movement as well. At the turn of this century the incomparable Sisqo bellowed "Let me see that thong!" So the young women of America obliged. Showing off their tail whale tattoos and vibrantly colored g-strings, it seemed as if ladylike behavior had gone the way of the VHS tape. Only old farts still believed in it.

Girls bought copious amounts of hip huggers in every rinse available. Britney was their patron saint. At the time she had abs of steel was able to rock the look. Tarty, but not exactly unkempt. Nothing jiggled and bits and pieces remained in their place. Then one day either the jeans shrunk in the wash or women started putting on a few LBs. Either way, they continued wearing them as if nothing had happened. How an appendix has never ruptured is a miracle. Around 2002, UGGs, the muffin top of footwear, gained momentum. Somehow a gut spilling over a waistline corresponded well with the wooly stuff at the top of the boot. Picture a volcanic eruption at Mount Etna. Add a cropped, velour zip up and a look was born. And it refuses to die!

I'm perplexed as to why the loved ones of these girls and women haven't staged interventions. Luckily, none of my friends are guilty of this most egregious of sartorial offenses. Like most of my mates, my weight fluctuates in my midsection. Depending on the time of the month or if I've had an extra hearty brunch, my tummy can expand significantly. But if I wear anything remotely close to a low-rise, I take the precautionary measures: a blazer, cardigan, or loose fitting top. When I say loose fitting, I don't mean something that will create gratuitous volume. I mean just enough to conceal that additional order of roasted potatoes.

If you (or someone you know) suffer from muffintopitis, it's not too late to seek help. Simply discard any jeans, trousers, or skirts that don't fit and allow yourself to look marvelous in clothing that's your size! If you need professional help, go to the Stanton + Williams Style Therapy website (www.swstyletherapy.com) and make an appointment. Do not mistake pride in appearance for vanity. It's self-preservation. Your appendix, large intestine, small intestine, spleen, and pancreas thank you in advance.

Excuse Me, I Have to Go Powder My Nose

Since when has it become acceptable to do one's entire face on the subway platform? Last week, I was waiting for the train during morning rush hour. A sea of people stood shoulder to shoulder anticipating the next A train. To my left was a petite woman, with semi-damp hair, in a dove grey skirt, suit looking up at a compact mirror. Not only was she applying her lipstick, but she swiped her concealer stick to hide the dark circles underneath her eyes. She also whipped out her eyeliner, lipliner, liquid foundation, blush, eyeshadow, and pressed powder. The piece de resistance was her eyelash curler. That's the one that really knocked the wind out of me.

In front of scores and scores of people, this woman was doing what I believe to be an intimate act of grooming. Makeup application is akin to plucking nose hairs and shaving armpits. It's something you do to maintain, but it's something to be done behind closed doors. Why stop at makeup? Why not bring a portable hairdryer on the train and maximize time that way?

Yesterday, another woman worthy of a role in I Pagliacci, was doing herself up. This time on the train itself. It was the early afternoon on the G, so the train was significantly empty, which made her actions even more pronounced.

There's nothing wrong with a quick patting of a shiny nose or the gliding on of lipcolor. But this kind of public makeover has reached egregious levels. An eyelash curler on the train platform. (Shaking head in disbelief). Was she serious?