Since I first began my career in magazines, whenever I’m in production for an issue, I suffer from the rather peculiar illusion of having a Tom Thumb-sized narrator climb inside my ear and begin a relentless — siding on obsessive-compulsive — reciting of Alan Sillitoe’s The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. You might think it odd that production of a fashion and culture magazine would call to mind a story about a wayward youth who throws a race that could win him early release from his prison school; and you would be correct in thinking so.
You would also be correct in thinking that the appearance of Mr. Thumb is directly related to sleep deprivation. But when a single, all-mighty deadline looms, encircling every second of freedom afforded you, demanding you meet it “or else,” one can’t help but relate to the long distance runner’s solitary struggle to shake the grip of his captors.
With barely time enough to recall what three square meals a day might consist of, let alone eat them, leisurely rituals such as Saturday brunch that exist as the final stretch of sanity between me and the dark nebula of the lonely workaholic, are put on the shelf. That is, unless I can devise a way to subvert my tyrannical work schedule. Turning a Thursday into an unofficial Saturday (when a weekend dump of work is what the future holds) is one way to do this.
And so, having concocted a plan to enjoy one day of “rest,” during which dishes could be put away, laundry might finally be washed, basic dietary needs could be fulfilled, and the worry of a postponed, seemingly cursed cover shoot in New York might be pushed to the back of my mind, I had a skip in my non-workaholic step. The problem with the skip in the step thing is that sometimes (for me at least), it is coupled with a freshly munched hole in the brain.
By the time 7:00 p.m. rolled around, I had actually forgotten it was Thursday. Between wearing my designated weekend T-shirt, all the Saturday chore activity, and the late lunch in a crowded neighbourhood restaurant (was everyone else also celebrating an unofficial Saturday?), I failed to remember my non-fake weekend commitments for the day. Top of that list: the Elle Canada 10th anniversary party. Start time: 6:00 p.m.
Aside from the obvious issue of the party having begun while I was still unshowered, in a Styx T-shirt and in the midst of completing the messy duty of bathing my dog Pickle, there was the work/play conundrum of the evening to ponder. I was double-booked, not technically, but inevitably, because of the way time sides against me. It didn’t look like I was going to make it to the party now till 8:00 p.m., so to make the dinner I had scheduled that night for 9ish (I say "ish" because the person I was meeting is one of the few understanding souls who allows this long distance runner lenience when it comes to timeliness), I would have to ditch my plan of popping home for a quick wardrobe change.
When attending an out-of-office celebration such as an anniversary event, it is safe to assume that colleagues will arrive dressed in something fancier than the usual pencil skirt and blouse ensemble, especially if that office belongs to one Elle Canada magazine. The question is: what is one to wear to a party where revelers range from those complying with the standard day-to-night protocol (i.e. remove blazer and accessorize remaining shift dress with evening sparkle in the form of layered jewelry and red lips) and those who have gone home from work early to get dressed for the event? Blowouts and manicures are just the tip of the iceberg with this lot.
For myself, the work/play conundrum that night wasn’t quite your usual day-to-night dilemma. Evening work events like this are a regular feature in my agenda, necessitating I become a pro at the day-to-night quick fix. But in my case, as perhaps it is in your case, there is a second layer to the equation: the post-event outing, weather it be a late dinner or a drink. The post-festivities festivity on this particular occasion was a dinner at The Black Hoof. True, the Black Hoof has earned itself a global reputation for fine food, but this chef-preferred (fans include Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and Daniel Boulud) yet modest Dundas West eatery is anything but fine dining; it’s nose-to-tail variety of comfort food is far too delicious to be tagged with that sticker. And, though some patrons might treat a visit to The Black Hoof as an occasion to flash the circumference of their novelty Hublot watch or the red soles of their newest shoe purchase, I share a street corner with the restaurant and would sooner don a dress for a meal there as for an orange juice run to the convenient store five doors down from it.
As I mentioned in my last column, there’s nothing I dislike more than feeling over-dressed, so the key to this night’s outfit would be to find a combination that could be both professional and elegant, while well on the other side of uppity.
Feminine in the most classic sense of the word, Toronto-based label BROSE modernizes kittenish dresses with its infusion of European demur, expressed in a concentration of clean lines and a subdued colour palette. Having both trained and worked in Paris by way of the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, designer Marika Brose — who’s impressive resume boasts Paris fashion house Chloe and Canada’s Pink Tartan as former employees — the young designer’s spring/summer 2011 collection showcases her ardour for vintage and knowledge of couture. Dresses like a jewel-studded cocktail dress, with a coquettish feather-detailed bottom, exudes glossy magazine glamour, but it’s the collection’s short pleated A-line dress (pictured above) that satisfies this evening’s itinerary. Pale pastel in colour, this is the sort of dress closets hold near and dear through endless trends. Sophisticated without a hint of stuffy, this is The Tickle Trunk of dresses. To create the understated elegance I wanted to achieve, pair an everyday gold necklace with vintage costume jewelry and black-on-black polka-dot tights for a touch of Parisian darling that also acts to dilute the “cocktail” out of the dress.
It was nearing half past ten when I arrived at the restaurant; by then it was mostly the plaid shirt and toque crowd left, with a couple of suited gentleman to the left of us. Halfway through the meal, I glanced down at my polka-dot tights and the stray pieces of meat that had fallen onto my lap from the tongue and brioche sandwich I was eating. No, I wasn’t overdressed.
Toronto-based writer Jennifer Lee is the Editorial Director of FILLER magazine, an online fashion & culture journal. She is also the Co-Editor of Hardly magazine, an arts-centric online teen publication for Canadian girls. Her column, The Dressing Room, appears weekly.
