Comfort vs Contours and American Apparel Tights.

I watched a great film last night. By the end of the opening credits to The Rum Diaries, I had decided that I would run away to Porto Rico (or, more accurately, time travel back to Porto Rico circa 1960, when the film was set). It’s been too long since I had beach time, and the setting of The Rum Diaries whetted my appetite for sand, salt, sunshine, shenanigans on yachts with rope ladders, Aaron Eckhart in a linen suit, red Chevys and tanning the good old fashioned way.

As I was stirred from my slumber this morning by Aaron Eckhart bringing me a cup of tea in bed the chill breeze of a Canberra Autumn, I remembered one reason why I was glad that I lived in cold old Canberra and not Porto Rico circa 1960.

American.

Apparel.

Tights.

I have a tendency, which I blame on clumsiness and longer than average legs, to go through pairs of tights quicker than Johnny Depp’s character in the film goes through bottles from the mini bar. Tights normally last about two wears before there is a hole in either the toe or the crotch. Having been a student for years, I’ve devised ingenious ways of getting more wear our of holey tights (a post for another day), but I’ve long suspected that hosiery, as much as I love it, is a capitalist plot to part young women from their hard earned.

This was until Zsusannah Verona bought me back two pairs of American Apparel tights from the states. It’s not too far a stretch to say that these tights LITERALLY

Blew.

My.

Mind.

Here’s why.

You know, ladies, how you face the dilemma every morning of Comfort vs Contours? It’s the battle between wearing what is comfortable, and wearing what gives you the contours you desire. American Apparel Tights are the only item of clothing I know of that not only passes, but excels, on both counts. They are the most comfortable tights I’ve ever worn, and, at the same time, make everything below the belly button look toned, luscious, completely free of cellulite, and totally pinch-able.

Could one want anything else? Well, actually, yes, you can, because American Apparel hosiery come in the most incredible array of colours, patterns, and textures. Soon after Zsusannah had gifted me two pairs (Dark Teal and Boudreaux), I placed an online order and branched out into their lacework, sheers, metalics, stockings and garter belts. All amazing. American Apparel hosiery also lasts at least three times longer than any other pair of tights or stockings I’ve owned, my long legs and clumsy habits notwithstanding. And, to cap it all off, America Apparel hosiery is made in America, by workers who are paid fairly. Everyone is a winner here.

Sadly, though, nothing is perfect, not even Aaron Eckhart (his character in The Rum Diaries is a bit of a jerkface). The big drawback with American Apparel tights is that they don’t come cheap. A pair of basic opaques will set you back $20, and when you get into sheers, lace, and garter belt/stocking combos you are looking at least $35. I know that this is a stretch for most people’s budgets, especially as hosiery is fragile and can’t be considered a rock solid wardrobe investment, like good quality wool cardigans and Veronica Maine pencil skirts.

However, it is without doubt worth the budgetary squeeze to invest in American Apparel hosiery. I don’t think any woman should have to face a Canberra winter without at least three pairs of beautiful, flattering, comfortable American Apparel tights and a garter belt plus sheer black stockings for those days when she needs a little help imagining she’s Joan Holloway or some other irresistibly sexy siren.

And while it’s not the sand, salt, sunshine, and other summertime shenanagins that I’m craving, American Apparel tights are a happy consolation prize for those of us living in Canberra circa 2012, rather than Porto Rico circa 1960.

Ps: as ever, this is an unsponsored post – just one woman sharing her hosiery tips with the blogosphere.

A School For Gifted Youngsters

Have you seen X Men: First Class yet?

If not, do yourself a favor and go see it. Kitty Gilfeather and I treated ourselves to a late night showing this Friday and, although the only seats we could book were neck-straining close to the screen, it was two and a bit hours of fantastic.

I’ve adored the X-Men series, eagerly awaiting the release of each installment, and spent a large part of Saturday re-watching them as a necessary self indulgence (it was cold and blustery in the Capital, and I’d already went for an early morning walk and yoga session –indulgence justified). I was also a fan of the animated TV series as a child, and passed many an hour concentrating super hard in order to achieve Jean Grey levels of telepathy.

More than Jean or any of the other mutants, though, it was Professor X who fascinated me. Along with Misses Honey and Clavel, Professors Lupin and Dumbledore, and many inspiring real life ladies and gentlemen, Professor X and his School for Gifted Youngsters has shaped my attitudes towards education.

Indeed, sometimes I cast myself as the Professor X of my own imaginary School for Gifted Youngsters. And, in light of a couple of thousand words on teaching I am supposed to be writing (and am procrastinating against by writing this blog), I’ve been wondering what my own School for Gifted Youngsters would be like.

For starters, it would be open to all who wanted to learn, regardless of capability, because even the most capable student in the world won’t achieve anything if they don’t want to. There’s nothing worse or more soul destroying than a class of students who don’t want to be there.

Having said that, though, my school would be staffed by men and women with superpowers – not like Storm and Jean and Cyclops, but men and women with superpowers to make people want to learn. Powers of compassion, of understanding, and of love. And also by men and women who would work together as a team – to defeat Magnito, sure, but to also pick up the slack when things and people go pear shaped.

A very hairy and very shirtless Hugh Jackman would prowl the school grounds (I’m serious about this one).

And speaking of grounds, my School for Gifted Youngsters would, like Professor X’s, be housed in a building that inspires, surrounded by clean air and trees, to remind my Gifted Youngsters that there are things bigger and more permanent than themselves and their problems.

But also, my school would teach that their problems, hopes and fears, just like the mutations of Professor X’s students, could be used to make things better, for themselves and for everybody else. And that they alone were responsible for making this choice.

I’d also insist on ties for the boys, and neat blouses and skirts for the girls. But perhaps that’s an overindulgence of some megalomaniac tendencies???

Visiting Friends

Like old friends, stories are always there for us when we need them. Like friends and friendships, the stories grow and change. We read and relate to different parts of them at different times, but I believe our favourite stories and our favourite friends, those that tell us the most about ourselves, often in ways we otherwise can’t express, are always carried in our hearts.

One of my stories that feels more like a friend is Sex And The City. Like many of you out there, no doubt, I encountered SATC for the first time after one of those confusing First Grown Up Break Ups. I walked down to my local DVD store, and rented the first couple of discs of the first season, mainly as a way to pass the time. Within the first five minutes, I was smiling, and within the first ten minutes, I’d laughed for the first time in what felt like an age. By the end of the first episode, I’d completely forgotten about whatsisname, and was irrevocably in love with Mr Big. It also lead me to wear some ridiculously oversized floral corsages, in the style of Carrie. Whether or not this was a good idea, only time will tell…




As any anthropologist worth their salt will tell you, the stories that we tell ourselves, as individuals and as a society, reveal a lot about ourselves. Take fairy tales, for instance. They’re a fusion of patriarchal and Christian values, folk traditions, and useful advice – scatter stones if you’re lost in the forest, don’t take lollies from strangers, don’t eat the porridge of strangers – actually, just avoid strangers and their foodstuffs altogether. Good advice.

Just like fairy tales, SATC isn’t at all realistic – no-one, in real life, could live life like the gals do. But the SATC story had a germ of reality that meant that I, and my close friends, kept returning to those stories. SATC became a guidebook to the confusing world of dating and men we found ourselves faced with, a terrain which our loving, well intentioned mothers didn’t know or understand. Particular episodes are like well thumbed pages of books that I watched – watch - when the need was – is - especially pressing. 2008, for me, will be the year of that episode from season one where Carrie throws a Fillet O’ Fish at Big, after he announces he’s leaving her, and their relationship, for Paris. Watching that episode evokes that year like nothing else.

The two films that were spinoffs from SATC met a mixed reception. I saw the first one with a dear friend of mine, who, not being a fan, sat patiently through the film with me while I ooohed and aaaaahed and had the time of my life, for I loved that first film to tiny smithereens. All of it. Every last bit (that poor friend of mine deserves a medal for their stellar performance in the friendship Olympics, then and always).Yes, I could see that it had changed from the first series – perhaps it was slightly more materialistic now than it was, a little louder and brasher – but I could see through all the shiny new clothes and the make up and see my old friend – that SATC story.

It was only last night that I decided it was time to drop in on my old friend’s latest incantation – SATC 2. I’d heard lots of horrible things about my story-slash-friend. I’d heard they’d sold out. I’d heard the years hadn’t been kind. I’d heard I would hate it.

I loved it from the opening bars of the theme tune.

I think what made SATC 2 and I fall right back into high-heeled step was that although the costumes have changed (for the worse), the story is the same. The story revealed myself and my culture, consoled me with its familiarity, and made me feel like I could make sense of my world. Really, it was like afternoon tea with an old friend. Yes, SATC was a different woman to who she was when we first met 6 (oh my word!) years ago. But deep down, her story’s the same - that good friends matter, that they’re worth time and effort, and that they are as extraordinary and precious as black diamonds (as an aside, I am completely in love with Carrie’s ring – amazing).

Yes, Sex And The City is (pun alert) Carrie-d in my heart. And what esteemed company it keeps there.