My Mother's Armoire

Ma and I were of similar clothing size, and wore the same shoe size. 

Her one "vice," if that is what it can be called, was a love of beautiful attire. Our outings were usually shopping in nature, and the thrill of the hunt—finding garments and footwear that were stunning yet exponentially reduced in price—gave us such pleasure. 

Cleaning out her closets was a difficult enterprise; I'm still only halfway. I have fantasies of altering her magnificent wardrobe for my own use, and I have appropriated what fits already. Will I ever give away her designer skirts, sweaters, suits? She would burrow in there on Shabbos morning, already liberally scented with perfume, as she tenderly selected her attire for shul. She would stride in, in stylish sunglasses and red lipstick that lasted overnight, whipping off her glamorous fur.

She also loved her bling. She had a right-hand ring that I always coveted, and I now wear it daily. It's a constant, comforting reminder of her. My sister-in-law said years ago of her "gam zeh yaavor" ring how looking at it, when the kids were misbehaving, reminded her that this too shall pass. Looking at my mother's ring, I recall her capability, her wisdom, her powering through even when it was difficult. 

While Ma could be the classy "lady," she could also strip down to the basics in order to prep for Shabbos and yuntiff. She loved the holidays, to the point that while there was effort, it was definitely worth it.  

Ari Scott's "Wearing My Dying Mother's Clothes" echoes my sentiments. Her clothing and accessories were an extension of her; wearing them keeps her close. 

Secular Tznius?

Tznius is a touchy topic. I, personally, heave whenever it comes up in conversation. The point of modesty is that it remains modest—not constantly talked about. I also thought it was something only our world would fuss over. 

That's why I was taken aback to see Honor Jones' "Why Yoga Pants Are Bad for Women," which, of course, was pelted with rotten tomatoes. 

It’s not good manners for women to tell other women how to dress; that’s the job of male fashion photographers. Women who criticize other women for dressing hot are seen as criticizing women themselves — a sad conflation if you think about it, rooted in the idea that who we are is how we look. It’s impossible to have once been a teenage girl and not, at some very deep level, feel that.

But yoga pants make it worse. Seriously, you can’t go into a room of 15 fellow women contorting themselves into ridiculous positions at 7 in the morning without first donning skintight pants? What is it about yoga in particular that seems to require this? Are practitioners really worried that a normal-width pant leg is going to throttle them mid-lotus pose?

We aren’t wearing these workout clothes because they’re cooler or more comfortable. (You think the selling point of Lululemon’s Reveal Tight Precision pants is really the way their moth-eaten design provides a “much-needed dose of airflow”?) We’re wearing them because they’re sexy.

Like I said, there were a lot of tomatoes. Women protested that they aren't wearing tight yoga pants to look attractive, they are wearing them because it's easier to do the poses. (I do yoga at home in baggy pajama pants; I don't like restrictive fabric when exercising or sleeping. But that's my personal preference.)

  

Yet along with the uproar were positive comments. Women who wanted to work out without feeling like they had to look attractive. Women wondering about what is appropriate. Women commenting that yogis wear loose cotton, not skintight spandex. 

Where I live, there are a lot of teenage girls who live in leggings. In my view, leggings have to be worn with something of at least tunic-length, but these youngsters rarely do.  

But if I went walking in some other communities, who had different norms, chances are they would find my attire to be reproachable. I would not tolerate them if they decided to voice their objections.

Tov v'ra, "good" and "bad," are in the eyes of the beholder. I'm not comfortable with yoga pants as a fashion choice. But so what? Who appointed me judge and jury? 

We all have the norms that we feel comfortable with. That's our choice. We have to let others make theirs.

Vive La Liberté!

Besides for no one messing with me on the subway, another reason I adore my height is that I was spared the wobbly horror of heels. 

Do not mistake me: I think heels are beautiful, on women they are magnificent, but personally I am happy to avoid the "requirement" to wear them. Luckily ballet flats have come a long, long way since my teens. There was nothing—and I mean nothing—flat and attractive to wear back then.

But high heels may be no longer ubiquitous, as Bonnie Wertheim reports. Women have had enough, for feminist, health, and comfort reasons. 

The alternative shoes made me shudder. Crocs. Birkenstocks. Clogs. No, not clogs! Anything but clogs! 

I blame Louboutin for this. He had to add on so many inches that women's backs were broken. Three inches were the max, once. That was fine. Women found that acceptable. But then Christian had to go overboard until the females rebelled.

The cohort of high-profile high-heel naysayers is vocal today. Gal Gadot wore flats throughout her “Wonder Woman” press tour earlier this year.  . . When asked why she ditched heels during the film’s promotion, Ms. Gadot told USA Today that it was a matter of health and safety. “I love wearing high heels — I think it’s beautiful, it’s sexy, whatever,” she said. “But at the same time, especially stilettos, it puts us out of balance. We can fall any minute. It’s not good for our backs. Why do we do it?”

Frum women can limit heel wear to Shabbos and simchas, so perhaps we aren't putting our spines under constant torture. Yet there are so many options today, pretty, dainty, appealing alternatives, not like in my youth when I was reduced to the lamest flats ever. 

Gal's still wearing Louboutin's, though. Ha.

Age Like Iris?

I learned, a long long time ago, to never say, "Well, I would never—!" 

A number of women have that about-face when skin starts to sag. In one's bouncy youth, the idea of surgical intervention for shallow reasons is repulsive; yet, perhaps, when actually confronting the signs in the mirror, the concept becomes less abhorrent.

Who knows what I will be tempted by if my neck goes all turkey despite my nightly creams? 

Debora Spar mulls over the issue in "Aging, and My Beauty Dilemma." 

Then my friend Elise pushed me toward the exit, where our husbands were waiting. Elise is about a decade younger than me; she is also Nordic, smooth-skinned and built like a ballerina. “Did you see that room?” she asked, smiling and rolling her eyes. “Every other woman there was over 60 and yet there wasn’t a wrinkle to be found. They all looked great,” she acknowledged, “but so similar!”

We ducked into the car and started heading back to the West Side. In the darkness, she grabbed my arm. “Promise me that we’ll never do that,” she said.

“Do what?” I asked, pulling my own black dress more tightly around me.

“That plastic surgery thing,” she said. “Fillers, Botox, all that stuff.”

I demurred, mumbling quietly, “Come back and see me when you’re 50.”

That's why we can't judge. If we haven't been in those identical shoes, who knows what we would do?

As for dressing, Julia Baird proclaims, "Don't Dress Your Age." I find it awesome when I see older women in bright, colorful, patterned attire. If anything, I think such garb is probably more age-appropriate than it is on the young. There is a fabulous octogenarian that I know who is my inspiration for my golden years, God willing. Now, I rarely wear patterns, and have difficulty finding festive hues that also suit my frame. But when I've aged out, what's figure-flattering will no longer be a concern.  

All this nonsense is why I adore the funky grandmothers you can find on Instagram who dance about in baubles and proudly sport turbans. They refuse to fade, hide or match their attire to the wallpaper.

But my greatest mutton-fantasy is just to wear and do what I want. To not have such preoccupations even cross my mind. Isn’t there a point when one can simply be a dowager, a grand old dame, or just a merry old boiler? When we can refuse to kowtow to prescriptions and permissions, but just march on in the shoes we fancy wearing?

Don't Judge For Me

Tznius. How I hate the term, and what it has come to mean. 

I'm a prude. I favor my maternal Zeidy, a European gentleman for whom my Babi considerately cut back on her salty speech. I do raise an intolerant eyebrow or two when faced with excess skin or uncouth tongues—but I still cringe at the term "tznius." 

Vanessa Friedman, a fashion reporter, wrote "Don't Ban Photos of Skinny Models." She does concur that standard advertisements feature women of only one body type, which is not good if people accept that as the norm. However: 

It’s not just because, as Mr. Khan or any other parent well knows, banning something simply makes it much more intriguing. . . 

It’s also because to judge a body healthy or unhealthy is still to judge it. . .

Just because a judgment is supposedly coming from a good place does not obviate the fact that it's a personal judgment, handed down from afar by a third party, bringing another set of prejudices and preconceptions to bear. The message in this case is that women, and young people, are not able to make such distinctions on their own. Yet that power — the ability of each individual to decide on her body for herself — is one we should be cultivating, not relinquishing.

We are surrounded by a lot of information and a lot of messages. I would rather be the one making the choice of deciding what is right or wrong for me than having strangers claim to know my triggers. 

Eating disorders have been around for centuries, in times when plump women were considered attractive. I grew up fanatically playing Barbies, but it never occurred to me that her plastic body was something to aspire to. She was stuck in heels all the time, for goodness sake. 

If I have a brain, it can be assumed that I can figure some things out without being "protected."  

To ban an ad depicting a specific body type is to demonize that type, labeling it publicly as bad. It also suggests that it is even possible to look at a woman, or a photo of a woman, and know whether she is healthy or unhealthy. That’s a misguided idea, as Claire Mysko, chief executive of the National Eating Disorders Association, acknowledges: One individual can have a seemingly normal body mass index and still have a tortured relationship with food and her physical self; another can look almost bony, and be fine. You can’t tell from the outside.

Body types, metabolisms, and lifestyles differ as much as personalities. My niece is skinny, and eats bountifully. Others may think she doesn't.

So with tznius. "What is tznius" are arbitrary parameters that are based on personal opinions that are usually biased. It encourages judging, and officially, again, people, Jews ain't supposed to judge, for that's the Eibishter's job. His alone.  

“The solution to body-shaming isn’t to limit the number and kinds of bodies we are exposed to,’’ said Peggy Drexler, assistant professor of psychology at Cornell University, and the author of “Our Fathers, Ourselves: Daughters, Fathers and the Changing American Family.” “The more sorts of bodies young women see — fat, thin, short, tall — the better they understand that bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and that theirs fits in somewhere.”

Barbie came out with dolls of various body types, and the line, I believe, is doing well. There isn't only curvy—there's also tall and petite, along with the original. We come in so many types of packaging. 

What is or isn't tznius isn't up to me, or you, or her, and I hope not him. But we can agree on what it means to be nice. I think we can.  

My Modesty

I am currently reading Love in a Headscarf by Shelina Janmohamed (I'm not sure where I had heard about it, but I think it was on a frum blog). The book is less about the histrionics of an "older" single, more over-explanations of Islam. 

Nura Afia, one of the new faces of Covergirl

The author's repeated insistence that Islam advocates love, not hate, made me think of our often frantic reactions when an outsider asks questions about Judaism. Won't they just think we doth protest too much?

We shouldn't have to be on the defensive, even if approached with a flat statement, as opposed to a curious inquiry. Janmohamed is constantly accused of being brainwashed and subjugated by the religious men in her life; frum women have experienced the same. 

If someone has an unmovable opinion, my gushing will not change anything. Better to not engage. In the future, I think I will simply shrug and say, "If you say so." 

Roger Cohen explored this gap in "Olympians in Hijab and Bikini" (this article was printed during the Olympics, but I have a backlog of pieces to link). He shares two opinions, one of a girl who voluntarily donned the hijab, another a non-Muslim who is studying in Iran, and so must abide by the culture there. The latter is not happy.

In terms of Jews, mode of dress is a constant, tedious conversation—perhaps because there is no set rules. We don't sit around pontificating about kashrus, as those laws are clear. When it comes to clothing, it's all about subjective perspective.

Janmohamed emphatically insists that the hijab is her choice. If anything, one of her frustrations in dating is that many single Muslim men want her to take it off. 

We've all got bechira. As to all our choices, to everyone's choices, let it be assumed that it is their choice (whatever it may be). Then leave it at that.   

Marriage Ends the Comfort Zone

I've been sitting on this post for a years. I felt like I'm not in position to talk or anything until, well, wedding bells and all that. But why wait? Who knows? Maybe it'll explode into an interesting conversation. 

I like to be comfortable. Who doesn't? But there is the understanding that when in public, one's appearance can have ramifications. Respect, assumptions regarding intelligence, looking responsible enough to handle a mortgage. 

When I leave the house, I am no longer as comfortable as I would be in my jammies. Arriving home, I clamber swiftly, joyfully into 100% cotton tees and pajama pants courtesy of the men's department, since I have a sneaking suspicion the dudes are given softer fabric. 

"Aaaaaaaaaah!" Dinner tastes so much better. 

As a child, I always envisioned what my married life would be like. No, no, not living in a castle with a pony and Prince Charming; my life not changing much, except I would be pottering about an apartment whilst in my hand-me-down (meaning broken-in) sleepwear. 

My logic was that a husband is like a family member like any other. I can hang out in pajamas around my mother, my father, my brothers, my sisters, right? Because they love me as I am, and wouldn't hold it against me if I am comfortable. 

But as I get older, observe the state of marriage in real and television life, it is obvious that my previously childish view of wedded bliss is kinda off. Wedded bliss is not about being comfortable. Bummer. 

In "Working Late and Working It" of the now-long dead Up All Night, Chris, who is the stay-at-home daddy, it getting frustrated when his wife Reagan tosses off her worksuit for stained and stretched maternity wear. He knows that it would be suicide to come out and say it, and his fellow STAHD Reed explains to him that he makes sure to look good for his wife, and she returns the favor. 

She doesn't get the hint (and he can't breathe in his skin-tight jeans), which eventually leads to a showdown with Reagan storming out of the room. But after a chat with a buddy, she puts on something for dinner that isn't . . . gross. 

I've come across quite a few articles on this topic, from Rabbi Shmuley Boteach's observations to an answer to a debate if unconditional love is the enemy of lust. Sarah responded no, sweatpants are. Rebbetzin Palatnick addresses this around the 29 minute mark.

Betty White, one of the funniest women on earth, once said that when she knew her husband was coming home, she swiped on a fresh coat of lipstick. I was unsettled when I first heard that years ago, but on closer consideration . . . 

The love between a man and his wife is not bound in blood, as is the love between a parent and child. The connection between a man and woman cannot be equated; the love is not unconditional, for one thing. Of course it is conditional in how that spouse was chosen in the first place. 

My vision of marriage has now changed. So much for a pajama pal. Yet how can I cook supper freely, if splashing sauces and juices on stain-friendly jammies are no longer an option? I guess I better stock up on some aprons.

TGIF

• Enough about tznius already; 

• "When G-d Stops Calling"; and

• The Converts of Columbia

TGIF

• How to be productive;

• BP's stylish, don't we know it;

• Gigi's Salad Prep Method;

• Only people of low birth pressed questions likely to embarrass.—Norah Lofts, The Concubine

Pattern Panic

I was frantically browsing online for some sweater options, which I found quite happily in solid shades. As I clicked back and forth, I came across the same ideal cardigan in a busy and colorful animal print. I paused, peering, debating whether I should purchase this item, which was on sale to boot. 

As we like to complain, models are usually ridiculously skinny, merely a breathing hanger. Oddly enough, however, the woman posing in the sweater did not seem so svelte.

Babi hated patterns. Always did. With a vehement, fierce passion. Permit me to clarify that Babi was not staid in her fashion tastes; whenever I visited, I carefully donned the newest, funkiest, brightest item in my wardrobe. Leather jacket? Denim skirt? Furry moccasins? All were graciously welcomed under Babi's roof. 

Ergo, if she loathed a busy design on a garment, she must have had her Hungarian reasons. Most patterns (perhaps excepting the pinstripe) makes various parts of the anatomy expand visually. Even solid white is a better choice. 

If, for instance, someone is er, pear-shaped, while an a-line or full skirt is a great choice, it isn't in a boisterous floral pattern across the derriere. 

Unless it's gingham. Gingham can do no wrong.

If one is top-heavy, cheerful graphic prints are a no-no. 

Additionally, unless chosen with careful classical consideration, many patterns look dated very quickly.  

I repeat, gingham can do no wrong.

For responsible pattern selection: 

1) Know thy shape, be it apple, pear, or whatever fruit comes to mind. Wherever weight goes, that area must be swathed in solids.  Wherever one is bulk-free can have a touch—a touch—of busyness.

2) Vertical stripes is usually a safe pattern, since it elongates and narrows visually. 

3) Classic patterns like houndstooth and pepita are pretty safe as well.

Maybe this a bit too much houndstooth.

Stocking Status

I couldn't believe it when I saw "The Politics of Pantyhose" by Troy Patterson while browsing the magazine section. No way! It's not just a frummie thing?

According to Patterson, seamed stockings, on the one hand, can be considered "sultry," while on the other, a requirement for attending church. Huh. Maybe stockings aren't established religious wear. 

 

Historically, hose was a dude thing—women were, after all, smothered beneath miles of petticoat. 

But then: 

Women’s hose were generally a knee-high affair at the start of the 20th century, but when hemlines rose, so did their significance. Adding luster and masking supposed flaws, they had the innate glamour of the sumptuously inessential. And because they appeared in an age when people disregarded fashion dictates at the risk of their social lives, they satisfied a prevailing idea of decorum — but not necessarily modesty. In the mind, as in the department store, stockings are adjacent to the intimate. 

Really? So stockings do not automatically equal "modesty," rather "decorum"? It is the latter term I use to translate "tznius," not the former. And now I've painted myself into a corner. 

As a rule, the more male-­dominated a work environment, the more likely it is expected that women in the ranks will make a gesture toward covering their skirt-­bared legs with fabric as thin as a gesture itself. A friend who is employed by a big bank with a conservative culture (and who declines to identify herself because she would like to remain so) tells us its women are made to understand that they should wear nude hose or black hose or maybe, maybe, opaque black tights in all but the sultriest heat.

But the current First Lady quit stockings eons ago. Then again, I find her casual disregard for refined conventions to be off-putting. I don't seem to be helping myself out here.

The chic woman now inhabits a world in which the exposure of naked shins to the winds of February is quite the opposite of a ghastly mishap. . . 

The bold bareness asserts the enjoyment of an increasingly common luxury — freedom from codes of thought that are, in their way, as constraining as any corset.

Those people who find hosiery a pain are free to renounce it, while those who enjoy or endure it can indulge a multiplicity of pleasures . . . 

Women’s hose have evolved into something new and dissolved into nothing all at once, just as measured feet of poetry evolved into free verse.

So what it boils down to: Wear what you like. Don whats thou wishes. For the decorum of the world has spoken: It's all good.

Via tabletmag

Phew. 

TGIF

• "Actually, We've Already Met" by Alison Zeidman; and 

• The runways are going frum.

TGIF

This isn't a new story, but I just came across it now: Ten Stylish, Orthodox Women Talk Balancing Modesty & Fashion. 

Sally Mizrahi

TGIF

I once bought an active wear top because it was a pretty shade of blue, but returned it.

"Out, Damned Spot!"

"And what do we have here?" 

Lurking about my brother's kitchen one Friday night, I discovered a forgotten pot on the back of the cold stove. Within was a wedge of divine, oily potato kugel, my great love and nemesis. 

Wishing to avoid inquisitive questions from my tablemates—and worse, the polite requirement to share—I tore off an edge and nibbled it where I stood. 

I watched, in horror, as a glob of grease dropped . . . right onto my skirt. My bright-hued, cotton, long-enough-without-being-yachnish skirt. D'OH! 

Come os, damage control! First, I sprinkled some D.E. on the stain, and let it sit overnight. I think it sucked out a good amount of grease, lessening my work. 

There are a number of stain removers in my laundry room; I selected Spray & Wash ("with Resolve power!") as my first champion. I followed the directions diligently, then rinsed off the spot (the skirt is officially dry-clean). 

The stain was fainter, but still obviously there. Next knight? 

OxiClean! Again, a diligent following of instructions, then a messy rinse of the area. 

When I came back a few hours later, expecting to have to do another treatment, I couldn't find the stain. I looked for it, up and down. There wasn't even any discoloration of the fabric. I couldn't believe it. It was gone, like the potato kugel never happened.

On the skirt, that is. The calories is something else.    

Tichel Bonanza

This post is for the wedded Jewesses who opt to cover their hair:

Ma, for casual about-the-house headgear, has only one choice: the kerchief. Not just any kerchief. It must be: 

1) 100% cotton. In her experience, any other materials, or even blends, don't grip the hair sufficiently, and tend to slide off; 

2) The fabric should be thin and lightweight (she feels excess weight of all forms quite keenly);

3) It must be perfectly square, to become a neat triangle; and 

4) The dimensions should range between 33-ish to 39-ish inches, neither too small nor too large. 

It is a tall order. Most scarves are silk or synthetic (how do the shpitzel wearers keep them on?), most are rectangular, and if a square one is discovered, it often isn't the right size. 

So I scour. Often my online discoveries would be less than promising, to be returned or tolerated. 

I then came across Headcovers.com. The website is geared for women dealing with chemo-related hair loss, and contain an insane amount of options, including 100% cotton, square scarves in a variety of sizes.

Tentatively, I purchased two clearance item scarves, figuring that for $11, they'll be spares. But the scarves that arrived were deliciously soft and deliriously light. Gleefully, I began to sift through their regular price options ($14 to $17). 

That should make up for melting that tupperware lid back in 1998.

*Disclaimer: I'm recommending this website simply because they booted me back into the favorite child running. They do not know of me, nor are they showering me in complimentary scarves. 

Be Honest

Say Yes to the Dress is seemingly harmless entertainment. Glossy-eyed brides-to-be troop in with their posses, searching for the "One," after finally pinpointing the other "One."

This is "reality" television, so they always manage to put a pleasant spin on interactions, but if one watches them carefully enough, it becomes obvious that the entourages are not as generous as they claim. Sisters, friends, even mothers—all are capable of sabotage. 

"I-I love it!" the bride stammers in delight after she is zipped and clipped into a gown. Ecstatic, she sails out to the main room where her people await. She poses in front of the mirror, exuding sheer and utter bliss, slowly twirling around, face shining in hope. 

Noses curl. Mouths contort. Thumbs get jabbed downward. 

Her smile crumples. Her shoulders slump. 

She returns dispirited to the dressing room, listlessly climbing into the next possibility. 

Sure, sometimes the peanut gallery gets it right. But that's not always the point. 

Many women don't have the best of self-esteems. When they face derision instead of support, they are visibly shaken—they aren't sure they are even capable of deciding what sort of gown style they themselves like. They want her to look her best, but if she has no confidence, even a $30,000 gown (yes, it actually does exist) won't make her look beautiful. 

Some, comfortingly, successfully shoot down the haters. In a re-run, a bride requires a last-minute dress. She has a low budget, no time to order a gown in advance, she's not a sample size, and her height means extra length in required: her options are not many. 

The second gown she dons she adores, as does most of her crew. Except for her "best" friend. Her mouth purses into a moue of distaste. The bride stares at her in shock. 

"I'm just being honest," the friend invokes defensively.

"Fake it," the bride snaps. "Why don't you like it?"

The friend shrugs. 

"That's it?" The bride mocks the so-called-friend's unhelpful shrug. "That doesn't tell me anything!" 

"I don't like the back," the friend feebly and weakly claims. 

The bride rolls her eyes and returns back to the mirror, nodding firmly to herself. With a joyous flourish, she says "yes" to the dress. The closing credits show her looking gorgeous by her wedding in this rushed, miraculous find. 

But that is a rare happening. Too many brides wilt under "dear" ones' disapproval. 

"Being honest" is under woeful mistranslation today. Apparently, it means, "That dress doesn't suit you. I'm just being honest." 

Oh, are you? Let's be honest. Are you, "BFF," maybe a wee bit jealous about your friend getting married? Be. Honest. 

"Honesty" doesn't mean hurting people without suffering the consequences of remorse. "Being honest" means sharing with others something true about oneself. That's what vulnerability means; sharing something deep and meaningful with another to create connection.

Let's try this again: 

"You know, Kathy, seeing you there, looking gorgeous in that dress . . . it's hitting me. You're getting married. It's kind of hard for me, you moving on, settling down with Gary. I hope one day I can be as happy as you. And look just as stunning in a wedding dress."    

What It Means to Me

Midtown, morning rush hour, icy winter day in New York: I took the last empty seat across from a young woman on the B train.

She was bundled against the cold in a floor-length down coat. A hat covered her forehead. A scarf was pulled over her nose. On his way out at 59th Street, a man lifted his chin in her direction. “You have pretty eyes,” he said.

The doors closed. The young woman locked eyes with me. I can’t guarantee that we were on the same wavelength, but I believe we were coregistering the lunacy of catcalling someone whose physical presence was entirely obscured. The woman went back to her book and I to mine. Being a woman is universally odd.

For many, bad weather offers a reprieve from the public gaze. Instead of being men, women and children, we are lumps of different sizes. When I zip into my insulated tube of outerwear on a 14-degree day, I am an ageless, sexless, shapeless agent in single-minded pursuit of a dry commute to work.

The above is from a witty review by Molly Young of a newly opened lingerie boutique. This introductory passage jumped out at me because it confirms that which I believed: Men will ogle anything. 

Despite the fact that this woman was "ageless, sexless, shapeless" whilst buried beneath her winter layers, a male was still able to desperately winkle out an attractive feature for him to comment on.  

I firmly believe that what is perceived as "tznius" is a corruption from the original meaning. When "hatzneya leches im Hashem" was intoned (in Micha, the haftora this Shabbos) the intended audience was not specifically women. Nor, do I doubt, was it meant regarding arbitrary hemline criteria. 

A few years ago Just Call Me Chaviva launched "The Tzniut Project," in which Jewish women of various hashkafos gathered to discuss what tznius means to them. Here's a sampling of responses from different contributors to her series when asked the question, "I say modesty or tzniut … what does that mean to you?": 

A) On a deeper level, the concept of tznius comes from the pasuk in Micha (6:8), which says, "hatznea leches im Hashem Elokecha" — walk modestly with Hashem your God. This is often taken out of context, though — the whole pasuk actually says, "You have been told what's good, what Hashem demands of you — asos mishpat (do justice), v'ahavas chesed (and love kindness), v'hatznea leches im Hashem Elokecha (and walk modestly with Hashem your God)." 

Tznius isn't just an outfit — it's a midah, like justice or chesed. To me, tznius means striving to be the kind of person who walks with Hashem, and the clothes I wear are just one part of that — it's also about being humble, speaking in a refined way, being sensitive to my own privacy and the privacy of others, and knowing the appropriate time and place for everything. It's about protecting my dignity as a daughter of the highest King.

B) Tzniut tends to be most commonly translated about modesty in reference to clothing. I think defining it down on this level does an injustice to tzniut and people who uphold the ideal of modesty. Personally, I believe that the most important component of tzniut is how we carry ourselves, not how we dress ourselves. Holding your head high with confidence, without boasting. Being a good person and friend, without advertising that you feel you are such. Lending a hand when needed, without making a big show about how helpful you are. That is the inner-modesty which is so much more valuable in today’s society. While how we dress should reflect the person we are on the inside, should a woman’s skirt length be more important than living a modest life?

C) Tzniut is more than just covering your body parts. I practice tzniut in my everyday actions and words. A quote that really helps me remember my tznius values is: “Watch your thoughts, for they become words. Watch your words, for they become actions. Watch your actions, for they become habits. Watch your habits, for they become character. Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.” Long story short, I feel that if I keep my thoughts modest, my character and destiny will keep modest. Modest actions and words to me mean following The Golden Rule, remembering “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” and realizing how lucky I am to have everything that I do, and taking none of it for granted.

D) Refined character clothed accordingly. Honoring Hakadosh Baruch Hu by using proper speech and carrying myself as one who takes his laws seriously.

Because externals are so easy to judge, we make the mistake that means that it is okay to judge. We are supposed to be inspiring and tolerant by example, not wagging admonishing fingers (when has that ever worked, like, ever?) To judge others is merely an expression of personal insecurities, not true self-righteousness. A righteous person doesn't wag fingers.

As we embark upon the terrorizing Three Weeks, let's try to take the judgmentalism out of our interactions.  

The Shoe Paradox

"Ow. Ow. Owowowow." 

I had worn these boots all day—flats, yet—and my feet had no reason to complain. But promptly as soon as they were put to work at a 7 pm outing, my toes, heels, soles, etc. began to yelp. 

We are living in the Shoe Dark Ages, I sadly informed Ma as we fruitlessly circled various department stores' shoe floors. Most pumps possess 3+ inch heels, too high for her comfort. Those that do sport reasonable heels are also dated in style: every angle is pointy, with sharpened edges that could double as a murder weapon. 

Then, if a magically perfect shoe is rapturously discovered, there is the comfort factor, which, of course, is never truly realized until the shoe has actually hit pavement and is thus rendered unreturnable. 

Joyce Wadler hysterically describes the shoe crisis in "Sound Like a Great Place, but Can We Get There by Shoe?" 

Your average high heels may feel comfortable in the store, where they put chemicals in the air to deaden pain, but they are not really designed for walking. Compound that problem by shopping for shoes when you are tired, and it’s like those submarine movies where the sailors are running out of oxygen and become delusional.

But the real sadness is that I shall not yet sacrifice form for function. There are the most stunning footwear in my closet marked with my blood, and I do intend to don them again if the situation should arise. Eh, what's a few hours of crippling agony. 

Well played, shoe industry. Well played.      

When I Grow Up

On chol hamoed Pesach I had to run to the store for some more fruit for second days. Since this was to be a rather short outing, I grumbled to myself as I applied abbreviated Face; tinted moisturizer dusted with some mineral makeup, mascara, blush, mineral concealer on my dark circles, and a swipe of lipstick. It took five minutes, but I still felt as though it was a waste of good cosmetics. 

My household always conferred a reverence to chol hamoed, scorning denim for dressy wool in honor of the holiday. Sighing as I selected a pair of ballet flats over comfy sneakers, I marched out all bedecked, feeling a tad ridiculous considering the swiftness of my errand. 

Standing in line waiting to pay, with three boxes of newly-reduced Kerestirer matzah teetering on one arm as I clutched a bunch of grapes and a cantaloupe with the other, I gawped at the woman ahead of of me. 

She wasn't young, maybe even over 70. Her Face was brilliantly applied, not too much, not too little; her neat wig was topped with a crisp straw fedora; her skirt was of the well-fitting pencil variety; on her feet were a pair of 2" pumps that could pass for Chanel. The epitome of elegance.

  

I so want to be her. 

We exchanged pleasant smiles once I dragged my jaw back upwards, and I hungrily took in her pristine appearance for as long as possible. 

I take that back. It can never hurt to dress up.