Leandra Medine's Blog, page 737

Drunk Fashion History: Men’s Socks

It wasn’t until the hipster movement of 0′whenever that men started to show their naked ankles. I didn’t mind it during the summer — it was hot and humidity is sartorially oppressive. “Expose yourself!” I would often yell in the name of nude-ankle encouragement at be-socked, sweaty men.

But what did bother me were the naked ankles of fall, winter, and whatever you want to call this bullshit category of mid-March. These bearded Brooklyn men were, in all honesty, making me cold just by looking at them. “PUT YOUR SOCKS BACK ON!” I wanted to shout…but couldn’t seeing as I was issued restraining orders the summer prior. (“Expose yourself,” it turns out, is an unacceptable subway sentence.)

I couldn’t bear to see these men. They were handsome, sure. But they were reckless and unafraid of chapped skin and they knew it.

Why couldn’t they be more like the gents of Milan? The dapper street crusaders who faced bold winds with thick cotton socks and determined faces that said to the cold, “Come at me, Bro.” Only they said it in Italian. And they said it in patterns; theirs were the ankles festooned in polka dots and stripes, in chevrons and stars and lobsters and bikes. 

Why, I wondered, were these Milanese men more apt to don socks whereas the American style contingent seemed so intent on the opposite?

One evening, in the name of investigative journalism and the boredom that comes with a bit too much wine, I called up every Italian man I’d met during a summer abroad to debunk this mystery.

And do you know what their unanimous answer was?

Shock value.

Or should I say, sock value?

I should enunciate the fact that they all meant electrical shock — as opposed to the PG version of suck: the kind that occurs when you scuff across the carpet in socks and then zing a friend (either out of good humor or spite, that’s at your discretion). 

Sock-Shocking began as a salon game back in the heyday of 1700′s European aristocracy. Noble men and women alike would choo-choo across rugs in the most fabulous of knitted footwear, then tap whomever to create a ZZZZz!ZZZ!!!! Everyone’s hair would stick up and it would hurt to touch doorknobs and the whole thing was one strange exercise in how easily humans can be amused without television.

Exactly why it didn’t catch on in America may have something to do with the fact that we weren’t an official nation until 1776, and by the time we were like, “Hey we want to play too!” everyone else was kind of over the game.

Like Apple to Apples. That tends to get old fast, right?

But fancy socks remained a tradition, especially among Milanese men, and to this day thanks to the impeccable air of style they emanate, said men have realized exactly how spectacular a pair of knit knee-highs look when paired with a loafer.

Us women have too.

And as for those bare-ankled Brooklyn boys, well, one can only hope that come snowfall in October, they’ll have caught up.

Click here for the Genesis of the Holiday Sequin,  here for the Genesis of Ruffles, and here for the Genesis of Turtlenecks.

Street Style Images shot by Tommy Ton

Beauty for Dummies: Compact in a Compact

I suffer from a syndrome I have recently identified as Stoop Kid Syndrome.

It earned its title from an episode of Hey Arnold! that chronicled the animated, namesake character-cum-incredible excuse for a living unibrow in mustard-colored socks. He spends the entirety of the 30-minute slot languishing on a stoop that he refuses to leave, harassing passersby in perpetuity as they come and go. Ultimately, we learn that he doesn’t leave the stoop because as a static social predator that is immobilized by fear, he can’t function off the confines of his comfort steps.

Though my comfort steps aren’t actually steps, they are a combination of the city and more acutely, the apartment that I occupy. When I am pushed out of the latter, I am more or less okay but when I resolve to leave this city — my stoop — everything I know about my judgement, my style, my ability to put an outfit together and self-maintenance flies out the window faster than a bird accidentally soaring through a slaughter house does.

Case in point: my most recent trip to France for fashion week where I decisively resolved that I did not need a) my most reliable pair of jeans, b) heels. Any heels at all, c) a computer charger and most important for the case of this story, d) any makeup independent of one Bobbi Brown eyeshadow compact. And a red lipstick. A red lipstick I fortuitously found in my jacket’s pocket.

So that’s ten days on another continent with a lot of eyeshadow and some rouge.

But I didn’t go to a makeup shop and fill the pronounced cracks that were staring me straight in the left eye that appeared in the form of dark circle and depleting eyelash. I just made like a lemonade squeezer and turned my compact plus lipstick into the beauty equivalent of a clown car that keeps on giving or as I like to call it, the complete, physical manifestation of every Beauty for Dummies published heretofore.

Using the white shadow at top left, I forged a fake under-eye concealer. A combination of the black and brown shadow served as eyebrow filler (trichotillomania is still winning), while the black, with a dab of water on the brush, worked nicely as an eyeliner. I used a combination of the metallic brown and center brown as eyeshadow proper and to give my cheek bones a little bit of life, after I finished applying my lipstick to my lips, I dabbed some of the extraneous color over said bones.

I’m still trying to discern whether or not this was a good idea but I do know that it worked, so, should you find yourself somewhere between your stoop and another with just a compact in hand, I think I have a decent idea.

Sweater by Prabal Gurung, neck scarf from Madewell.

How Jared Leto Became the Internet’s New Boyfriend

My breakup with Ryan wasn’t exactly amicable.

Or, our breakup with Ryan, I should say, seeing as I shared him with a few other women and quite a few men.

I’d assume each of us fell in love with Ryan as John Green described it: “the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.” For me, it began with his first crooked smile then hit the moment he hung from a ferris wheel one-handed (despite his really stupid albeit historically accurate tweed hat). In real life I’d never agree to going out with a guy who sort-of-psychopathically manipulated me into a date. But when you’re Ryan Gosling, stupid hats and potentially deathly ultimatums work really well in your favor.

The Internet’s collective love for him could do nothing but grow. The world wide web acted as an ocean and our feelings for Gosling played the role of the goldfish myth: that if you give the yellow feeder creature endless boundaries it will expand to the width of the sea.

Movie after movie, meme after meme, our hearts swelled and emotions grew stronger. “Hey girl,” he’d say to us on Instagram each morning. “I like the way you do those push ups.” “Your coffee’s getting cold but I’ll warm it up.” “Your hand looks heavy, let me hold it for you.”

Slowly but surely, however, the “Hey girl” jokes got old.

We overdid it. There were too many of us requesting his attention and affection. Imagine the weight he had to carry knowing the entire population considered him their boyfriend! The proverbial fish bowl of emotional expansion grew too large for his golden body to accommodate, and just as abruptly as we had fallen in love, Ryan Gosling broke it off.

There was a natural grieving period. Together we (his respective girlfriends and boyfriends) went through everything from anger to denial to calling him ugly to ice cream. Mutual group depression, by the way, is the only upside to having once dated the same man as millions. If misery loves company then the Internet fucking rules.

Lives resumed normalcy as legions of women and men returned back to work and grocery shopping etc. But as our mothers predicted, a new love hit us when we least expected it by way of a certain guy we’d known since childhood.

And just like that, Jared Leto became the Internet’s new boyfriend.

His similarities to Ryan were striking: blue eyes, tiny mouth, an air of mystery. They were both teenage actors, both musicians, both hot. But unlike Ryan, Jared had the bad boy edge: Ryan stopped the fights, Jared Leto started them.

And he was easier to be around — a bit more fun and carefree. For example, Ryan was always really hard to go out to eat with. He was SO picky. He hated cereal. Who hates cereal?

Leto, on the other hand, is just like, “Give me the full loaf baby.”

Ryan was all, “Bla bla kale shit kale.”

But Leto…not Leto. He’s like, “BURN GREEN FOOD, BURN!”

!!!

If you’re down to go out, he’s puts his party bun on.

None of this, “Let’s just stay at home and read poetry” crap.

And speaking of hair, you guys can share tools, tips and products.

Ryan couldn’t do that.

All in all, he’s just a really great guy.

So for now, it’s going really well.

Your Legs, My Warmers

I liked Prada’s spring 2014 collection just as much as the next fashion blogger did — the sequins! The coats! The crystals! The leg warmers! — they did all the same visceral things to me that make us want to exclamate, presumptively in spite of better judgement.

I am also, however, cognizant enough to understand that leg warmers are leg warmers — Prada or not. So even though I like to think I’ve been living by a self-inflicted decree that says: support a designer don’t knock one off, I’ll say something else one more time: leg warmers.

In trying to get the look without actually, you know, getting the look, I high tailed it over to my neighborhood American Apparel outlet store and found some striped camp socks. Then I came home and JTT’d — cut just the tips, which should not be confused with Jonathan Taylor Thomasing, a similar phenomenon in which you cut the teenage heartthrob’s head off his popular 90s posters and sleep next to it.

But I digress.

Once I put the now toe-less socks on, I realized that I didn’t think through my idea strategically enough — the sock heels remained on sock thus creating the illusion of curious, back ankle growths when worn.

This is a process of trial and error, though, so I continue on, errors and all, enter the sequined Theyskens Theory dress from a time when Theory still had the precursing Theyskens chained to it. The sandals are Jimmy Choo, will never let you down, and really bring out the red in my eyes, which is all I have to say about this except for: if you plan to give it a try, give it one with thigh highs, not knee highs, so you can be more liberal about your sock castrating.

Also, 28 degrees? Really? I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to re-open the shit weather lament deposit box.

Because It’s Saturday

We’ve been languishing in 2014 for how long now? Three months? And in those three months have you so much as seen promise of a brighter — literally — future? Because I have not. I mean, I almost did earlier this week when the sun came out and the temperatures were high enough for me to forgo sixteen additional layers of dismal black and grey but that was taken away from me faster than the rights of an indicted criminal out on parole.

And so I was angrier than Squidward.

Now, look — I know. I get it. I’ve been talking about the weather with such obsessive conviction for the last week and change. So much so that you are probably feeling inclined to check the fuck out but frankly, this conversation (or is it a monologue?) is chiefly a function of the fact that it is both the most infuriating and fascinating conversation to have right now. You can’t blame me for that.

It’s been an aggressive season chock full bad jokes (see: Amy Pohler’s Vortex, The Polar Whoretex, and several comments on piss-flavored snow cones) but I think I am actually kind of maybe please-don’t-shoot-me-for-observing-this-Cunter-Nature coming to see the light because…

The sun is out! And it’s not 20 degrees! There is very little wind and as a result of my having been in desperate hibernation, terrible, terrible clothes notwithstanding, I am faced with a very trivial debacle that I would like to pass down and subsequently solve for you too.

So, ready for it?

Now that it’s not winter winter, what should we wear?

Today, I’m vetting in favor of a jean jacket (this one by Acne, but I like this version by Asos, too), a white cotton poplin blouse (this one by Celine, from Yoox, though I really like version from, yup, Asos, too) and a pair of vaguely cropped, loose-n-dreamy palazzo style pants. I don’t think I can stomach another pair of capable-of-fitting-into-boots skinny jeans so I am all about lettings my thighs free ball like unconcealed weeners or something.

The shoes are Nicholas Kirkwood and make me feel like I work at J. Crew (+1) and the sunglasses are Shipley and Halmos. I don’t know where you could find them in the event you want to find them but I did some puny market research and found this similar pair. The bracelets are Dannijo and that smile on my face? That smile is the shit unilateral, ephemeral and conditional happiness is made from.

Soooooooo….is here where I say: unleash the power of the sun?

OH! Also! Happy (???) Ides of March.

On Profile Pictures

I’d always admired people with “joke” profile pictures. Those weird-but-funny anti-headshots; the five-chin creep-face crops reserved for the unbridled and carefree.

A few kids I knew went into their first years of college represented by shirtless photos of David Hasselhoff. Then there was this guy who made his Facebook debut with a brightly-lit picture of his gut with drawn on abs. There was also the friend-meme: when someone’s embarrassing photo went viral thanks to his or her group of friends setting the same photo as their own profile pictures. It wasn’t out of solidarity so much as it was a guerrilla group inside-joke, and when pulled off correctly it was the perfect punchline.

But trickiest to perfect was the ironic profile picture. One person’s faux-glamour shot was another’s actual glamour shot (no judgement — who doesn’t love blue eyeshadow, a chin propped up by a fist and teased hair), but there is a fine line that stands between earnestness and irony.

A group of my guy friends, for example, had a professional photo taken of themselves in white turtlenecks with an American flag as their back drop. The word “friendship” was written in cursive across the flag. They’ve all set it as their individual profile pictures at least once, but if I didn’t know them, I’d probably assume it was a sincere homage to 80′s patriotism and brotherhood (as opposed to an idea that manifested courtesy out of boredom and an afternoon at Walmart).

The joke’s on the person who doesn’t get it, I guess.

I remember my first profile picture. It was the summer of 2006 and I’d just received my dot-edu. I recall selecting the picture: it was a tight shot of me, cropped in a vertical rectangle to eliminate the ten other girls who joined me in the original photo. But the editing didn’t stop once I voted my friends off the visual island. I emailed my solo to a girl named Tina, the first person I knew who could work Photoshop. And not only did I have her grayscale it, but I asked that she isolate my eyes so that they would remain blue.

Cool. Because that looked totally normal.

What I was doing, essentially, was setting the stage for who I would be as a college freshman. No one would know me, and my slate, although cherished, would be wiped clean. Exactly what this image of my Windex colored irises was supposed to say though, I’m still not so sure.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t ironic. It could have been mistaken for one of those aforementioned glamour shots but because it was set on football bleachers and sans star spangled backdrop, it was probably a lot more like the selfies we see and consequently emit today. Which leads me to wonder whether our profile pictures were the first to incite the current epidemic of hashtag beauty shots we’ve all, at one point or another, fallen victim to?

Is the same thought process that went into selecting the perfect, long lasting profile picture akin to the one that propels the ephemeral selfie? Why do we do it? What do we hope to get out of them? And most importantly — what did your most embarrassing old-school selfie, new-age profile picture look like? Show us. Come on!

-Edited by Leandra Medine

Fashion Says to Hell with Ageism

I remember very clearly sitting down with Lynn Dell, one of the many octogenarian style champions that Ari Cohen has galvanized through his blog, Advanced Style, and thinking to myself: this is youth.

It seems that lately, fashion has had a similarly visceral if not contentious reaction to the textbook definition of the anterior term and the true paladins of a subindustry within fashion — modeling, which is currently one chiefly run by fresh — faced and aged — indwellers.

Jessica Lange, age 64, recently became the face of Marc Jacobs beauty. This comes almost a year after her having appeared in an editorial spread wearing the anterior for Love Magazine and separate news of Jacky O’Shaughnessy, 62, modeling for American Apparel.

Catherine Deneuve, 70, appeared in Jacobs’ last campaign for Louis Vuitton. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen used Linda Rodin, 65, in their pre-fall lookbook for The Row while Leslie Wiener, 60, was the subject of Vivienne Westwood’s SS14 ad campaign shot by Juergen Teller. Kristen McMenamy, 46, fancied herself the subject of a Tim Walker spread for W Magazine in December 2013, which was immediately followed by participation in Balenciaga’s SS13 campaign.

She also walked Chanel’s Resort runway in 2012.

Daphne Selfe, 86, just covered S Moda, a Condé Nast publication based in Spain and Jan De Villeneuve, 69, modeled for Moda Operandi last year in collaboration with their participation in The Met Ball. Carmen Dell’Orefice, 82, landed her own spread in Vogue Italia last July and most recently, last week in Paris, Jean-Paul Gaultier and Rick Owens used not the pretty young things we’ve grown accustomed to watch traipse down runways for their shows but rather, they used “real women,” with their impeccable flaws and all.

The high contingent of older female models appearing in campaigns across the verticals of both fashion and beauty is refreshing. It finally adheres to an old tenet of the industry, that style transcends age, but the involvement does not come without a little bit of skepticism.

For a decent chunk of the fashion engagement, there seem to be ulterior motives that are tethered to the concept of shock value and spectacle; you see an 80-year-old woman on a runway and yes, it’s stimulating, but it’s also a point of conversation.

It’s really where beauty campaigns are concerned that you can find the most value in the recent influx of well-seasoned queens to meaningfully liter the stratosphere.

Why? Because an older woman, who has gracefully aged and proudly boasts the badge of time well endured in the form of subtle wrinkles, maintains the ability to broaden a brand’s appeal, cornering an older clientele while manufacturing a clause of highly attainable aspiration (one that says, to get older is beautiful) for a younger consumer.

This seems like something far more feasible to aspire toward when considering the insurmountable battle against gravity, but then again, maybe I’m wrong. Only your comments can tell — how do you feel about locating, exploiting and celebrating the nuances of youth and beauty, ones that are de rigeur, in advanced age?

-Leandra Medine and Charlotte Fassler

Magna Carta Holy Water

I used to be addicted to infomercials. I’d wake up early on Sunday mornings to watch them then beg my mother to consider Ron Popeil’s Showtime Rotisserie Oven. How badly I wanted to “Set it and forget it!” How I longed to buy anything that would cost me just four easy payments of only $19.99!

No matter the particulars of the product it sold, each segment adopted a similar format. First, a mustachioed man and his enthusiastic sidekick would narrate some household grievance: “Are you tired of chopping onions and mincing garlic?” Or: “Do you wish you could blend exotic smoothies at home?” Then: boy, did they have the solution for you.

For twenty-five minutes, this pair of hosts proceeded to extoll the virtues of such indispensable home goods as the Magic Bullet and Miracle Blade knives. They presented the new and improved Talavera Split-Ender Maxi Kit (“Say goodbye to split ends forever!”) and a motorized can opener endowed with life-saving properties.

“Order now!”

Of course, I could be swayed by less sophisticated schemes as well. After perusing an article entitled, “Prom Prep!” in an old issue of Seventeen, I sent away for a vial of Costa Rican tea-tree oil. My ashen locks did not assume reflective properties, but I did spend several days smelling like hand sanitizer. Last month, I had to actively resist the urge to purchase a Shake Weight at Target.

In retrospect, I’m surprised it took me so long to discover luxury facial spray. 30mL bottles of “Beauty Elixir” are exactly the kind of shams that the Home Shopping Network and my childhood dreams were made of. But despite my weakness for Sharper Image catalogues, I spent many happy years ignorant of caviar-infused creams or Evian Mineral Water Spray.

The Popeil Automatic Pasta Maker was productive and timesaving. But an undrinkable $12 bottle of water? Not for me.

If only I’d known then all that I know now: Cadualíe’s Eau de Beauté is so much more than H2O. It’s my version of Michael Jordan’s Secret Stuff. It’s magic.

We were first introduced in an apothecary some blocks from my apartment. It was fall. I had ambled into the boutique on a whim, but no sooner had I crossed its lacquered threshold than a pore-less saleswoman — or, you know, fate —intervened.

“This season is so hard on the skin,” she said.

I nodded noncommittally.

“Have you ever tried Eau de Beauté?”

I had not.

Without warning, she sprayed it in my face.

Using the kind of voice that had once narrated the Sunday mornings of my youth, she prattled on about grape-seed extract and free radicals, but I was no longer listening. I was too busy inhaling the most intoxicating scent I’d ever encountered. My skin felt fresh and rejuvenated. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. Had my eyes always shone so brightly? Had my complexion ever looked so radiant? Did I want to say goodbye to dry skin forever? Indeed, I did.

I bought it immediately. And unlike that tropical nut oil or the vaguely masochistic Japanese hair accouterment that languishes in the back of my medicine cabinet, I’ve been stockpiling it ever since.

I mist it on before flights and subway rides. I spray it on after lunch and before dinner and in the morning so that my eyeliner smudges just so. It reminds me of my grandmother and Albus Dumbledore. It makes me happy.

Facial mist isn’t going to ward off deep wrinkles or fine lines or evil spirits — not even one purportedly inspired by Queen Isabelle of Hungary’s “elixir of youth” is capable of so much. But every once in a while, it’s nice to buy into a myth. And given that the Jack LaLanne Power Juicer after which I once lusted retails for two easy payments of only $49.99, eighteen bucks doesn’t seem like such a high price to pay.

You must be guilty of a similar charge so let’s air out our feckless, feel good splurges, shall we?

Illustration by Charlotte Fassler

Mastering the Art of Repurposed Sweaters

That yesterday and Tuesday provided spring-like temperatures nearing 60 but that today has dropped back down to a rude 27 plus potential snow flakes seems cruel and manipulative in only a capacity made possible by one female entity who commonly goes by the moniker Mother Nature.

We’re tired, we’re cold and though we need them, we are definitely not trying to buy new sweaters, enter an alternative first pioneered by Amelia a few weeks ago when in a bout of unilateral competitiveness, she was determined to wear the same L.L. Bean sweater for what seemed like months but was actually just a few days. Photographed above you’ll find it in its intended state — navy blue and featuring little white somethings that may or may not (probably not, but then again this is Amelia we’re talking about) be sailboats.

At some point midway through the week, she started wearing the sweater inside out thus creating a brand new sweater (now it was white plus little navy somethings that may or may not have–you get the point), which got me thinking about all the other ways you can take your old sweaters and make them new without having to buy new ones during this last, nasty hump of winter.

So, without further ado, there’s:

The Cardigan: while you may be used to wearing it open and with something underneath it, why not try a) wearing it as a blouse with nothing underneath it? Add a fox face because why not? Conversely, you can also pair the sweater with any choker or necklace of your liking and pull the shoulders down to create an off-the-shoulder confection which is very right now if we may suggest so ourselves. (The sweater in this particular instance is by Fine Collection).

The Cropped V-neck: It’s true that this sweater is bad-as-ass-ass-(ass) on its own but sometimes that v gets in my way. Especially when I want to pair layer cropped sweater with a shirt underneath it or something. Why not just try wearing it backward and layering or delayering as you see fit? (Sweater by Rick Owens). Jackets work, shirts work, heck, try throwing a banjo in.

The Ol’ Changeroo: Take your favorite knit and wear it inside out. If anyone calls you out, just make like Alan Arkin and tell them to Argo-fuck themselves.

Did we leave many tips off? Tell us how you repurpose your shit in the comments below and leave photos for reference because you get to see us all the time and we have no idea what you look like.

Fair is fair.

Etiquette for the Modern Human, Part I

Once, when I was seven, my friend Jamie’s mom came by my house to pick up her daughter from a playdate. My own mom was either busy with our large pet bird or gardening in the backyard, but for whatever reason, when the doorbell rang, I opened the door.

“Hello,” I said. “Jamie’s upstairs.”

“Great,” she responded. “Did you girls have fun?”

I considered her question but before I could speak, I found myself frustrated that she was neither fully inside my home nor completely outside. She was just lingering in the doorframe like an errant booger.

“Sorry,” I began, “Are you going to come in or out? You’re letting the heat escape.”

She later told my mother that I had been extremely rude, but to this day I stand by the fact that while perhaps, yes, my delivery was off, it was she who lacked any sense of porch etiquette.

I’ve been a stickler about etiquette my whole life. One of my favorite books growing up was the American Girl Library’s “Manner Guide for Girls,” which is a weird ass thing to have read recreationally but that’s neither here nor now.

What is here and now? A few recent annoyances that I need to get off my chest:

Cab Upstreaming

Stealing cabs is like talking shit: I’d rather you do it in front of my face. Don’t act like you “didn’t see me waiting there” or pretend that you “happened” to run fast-as-fuck up the street to cock-block the taxi aiming directly toward me. OWN the fact that you’re a transportation thief; false innocence is unbecoming.

Doors

It seems like while many of us have been taught not to defecate in public or cough on someone’s face, apparently no one has been told that you ABSOLUTELY MUST SAY “THANK YOU” WHEN SOMEONE ELSE HOLDS THE DOOR FOR YOU.

Holding the door is a courtesy. At this point I do it out of reflex, but when one, two, three, four people have walked through the door without so much as a NOD of graciousness, I go insane. I was not hired by the entire St. Patrick’s Day Parade as an inanimate door stop for their coffee break at Starbucks. I do not just stand in doorways for fun. (See: porch etiquette.) Rather, I’m a functioning member of polite society who, going forward, may very well just let the door hit you where Zeus once split you.

You’re welcome.

Sneezing

Similar to the “thank you,” it seems humans have become incapable of acknowledging a sneeze. If someone is sneezing, understand that her heart is seizing up, her eyes are shut, and she’s at her most physically vulnerable for at least a second. Leandra once told me, and I quote, that “according to old Jewish rhetoric, people used to sneeze and that’s how they died. Then Abraham was like, ‘Yo, G-master Wiz, think you can provide a better marker?’ And so cancer was born.”

A sneeze is paralyzing, and when someone comes out of it alive, the least you could do is bless her soul back into her body.

Line Proximity

As far as I’m concerned, people are informally allowed a two-foot radius of empty space that strangers should not cross. Why does no one follow this? Sometimes, when I’m standing in line, the eager person behind me moves forward so quickly, before I know it, I’m wearing said person as a backpack.

Giant Heads

If you are aware that your head is unusually large or that your hair, god bless you, is Texas-to-heaven high, then maybe don’t choose the seat directly in front of those of us who are 5’3″. Not everyone does it on purpose but some people do. So don’t.

Subway Starers

This is the last for this post though not the last on my list, but subway starers are the worst. Everyone knows that if you have a staring problem, you should wear sunglasses. It is an abomination to let your gigantic eyeballs set focus on whatever is impairing your pupil’s ability to move.

Here’s why: if you’re staring at me, I get self-conscious. But worse than that is if I catch you staring at something, pushing me to have to look. Then the person next to me does it too, and now you’ve gone and started a whole group activity of us staring at some poor unsuspecting soul who probably knows they have taco dip all over their pants but was hoping no one would notice. Now 50 of us have noticed — and that, Jamie’s mom, is rude.

Photograph by Kristian Schuller