The Devil Wears Prana

I knew nothing when I went for my first interview at the Daily Camera three years ago, and climbed up the metal stairs – the pathway to All Things Boulder.

I had never slept in a tent, intentionally sweat or gone more than 24 hours without showering.
I had never smelled patchouli. I thought dreadlocks were an urban myth created to frighten young girls into combing their hair.

I had never laid eyes on Iron Men or adventure racers. And here, every Boulder body was perfectly toned and rippling underneath sweat-wick-away shirts and Spandex. Even the faces in the newsroom looked like they’d stepped off an infomercial for the Chuck Norris home gym.

I’d heard from a friend of a friend – someone who’d once journeyed beyond our impossibly average Fort Collins city limits – that such an alternate universe existed under the pointy nose of the Flatirons. I’d heard it called the “Boulder Bubble,” and I was about to learn why.

Until now, my reality had revolved around designer clothes and mascara. I never wore sweat pants – not even to bed – and I reserved jeans only to tone down overly embellished Guess corsets.

The newsroom was dim and yellowy, accented by pillars of fading newspapers and old school-board agendas.

Interesting, I thought, but I meant it in the same way the Pearl Street contortionist is interesting: eye-catching and talented, but honestly, a little gross.

And intimidating. A chiseled body rolled past me, pushing a bicycle with tires still warm from the pavement. An editor was hammering on his keyboard, but hadn’t had the time to change out of his sweat-drenched Nike shirt. A reporter wearing a Prana yoga outfit conducted an interview while balancing on a blue fit ball, like she was floating.

I recognized columnist Clay Evans. He wore running shorts but no shoes – not phased by the 1,000 years of grime coating the old building’s floors. I wondered if he had run the nearby trails barefoot, too, and concluded he likely had.

I looked down at my freshly pressed designer pantsuit and pointy Jimmy Choos and wondered why I’d even bothered.

I’d heard about health reporter Lisa Marshall. I’d seen her mug in the paper, too.

I’d been hired – either for entertainment value or to fulfill some sort of refined-sugar-eating, non-athlete quota – and several years later moved into the features department. Marshall’s territory.

One day, she stopped by my desk wearing tiny running shorts and a sleeveless top.

“Ai-mee,” she said, eyeing the bag of M&Ms and Diet Coke that represented my breakfast, lunch and dinner. “I’m heading up to Mount Sanitas. What’s your favorite trail up there?”

Blank. Completely and totally blank. Mount what? I stammered for a moment, before answering, “Uh, well, I like the long trail. You know, the hardest one.”

She stared at me and shifted between her perfectly chiseled legs. Then a nod and a smile. Apparently that was the right answer. Maybe I had a chance in this city, after all.
Inspired, I decided to get in a little exercise.

I needed another Diet Coke, and it was a good five-minute trek to the vending machine.

I straightened my black-and-white striped strapless top and set out on my matching stilettos, which I justified buying from an overpriced boutique in the Dominican Republic because their brand was “Aimee’s.”

As I turned the corner, I felt eyes on my outfit. It was Sue Deans, the Camera’s editor, known for her intense blue gaze and blond hair. I’d recently dyed my blond locks dark brown. Hair dye – in Boulder! So unnatural. What was I thinking?

Deans also was known for the rare ability to balance femininity, professionalism and Boulder-worthy healthiness. She wore a long-sleeved black cardigan that made my fully exposed shoulders feel wanton.

“Wow, don’t you look trendy?” she said.

She was smiling. I thought I felt a wave of acceptance.

But then, “Have you seen ‘The Devil Wears Prada?’ Meryl Streep is great, and her outfits are just fabulous in that movie. Very classy.”

That’s when I realized she probably meant I looked “trendy” in a childish, Forever 21 kind of way.

The natural-blond beauty continued talking over her (clothed) shoulder as she walked away.

“Well, you should really see it,” she said. “And Ai-mee, could you get me a Pellegrino while you’re in the break room? That’s all.”

Photo by Flickr user TheImageGroup.

Socks and the city

A letter to the lady in line behind me at Target:

You deserve an explanation for what happened last Saturday. It was yet another in a long list of damaging blows from socks to me.

First, the history. I have a hate-hate relationship with socks. This war was first waged during a kickboxing class in college. Front and center, I was kicking boxes like a trillion dollar baby. Bam. Uppercut, jab, jab, jump kick — and whoosh! Out of the leg of my sweatpants, with one particularly swift kick, I launched a sock rocket.

The sock wad — which had apparently smuggled itself inside my pants leg in the washing machine — landed with an audible “Wee!” in the middle of the studio. The other participants saw it and did not know how to respond. They subconsciously backed away, while not missing a kickbox beat, forming a sort of circle around the sock. It looked like a foot fetish tribal dance, or maybe like my sock was about to perform a breakdancing routine.

That was the end of my kickboxing passion.

So needless to say, what happened Saturday awoke in me Post Traumatic Socks Syndrome.

Now, the context:

1. It was my friend Vanessa’s birthday. She wanted to play trampoline dodgeball. But I was wearing a short leather skirt.

2. I ran to Target and bought a pair of sweats to change into. But by the time I returned, everyone had already jumped so much they were hyperventilating and now eating cupcakes. We’re getting old.

3. I never actually used the pants, although I did wear them for three minutes to eat a cupcake. I did not think that qualified as use, which brought me to the customer service line to return the pants.

Now, to address your unspoken (but obvious) concerns:

1. No, I do not live in a van down by the river. I had Old McDonald’s Swine Flu Farm living in my sinuses. Yes, I should have at least combed my hair.

2. My dog, which also happens to have the hairiest white rumpus of any creature on Earth, was in the backseat of my car. Even though the pants were caked in dog hair, once again, I swear they were within the bounds of an appropriate return.

3. When I shook the pants to remove their fur coat, I did not know a dirty sock had been hiding in the pants leg.

4. And no, I am definitely not Aimee Heckel, who writes a fashion column for the Camera. That was actually my sister Leah returning the pants for me.

Thanks for your understanding.


Dear Leah,
I’m sorry. Don’t go to Target for a very long time.
Love,
Aimee

Ah, yes. Socks suck. One of the reasons I love spring is it means I don’t have to touch those things for a good three months.

Of all of my clothing items, socks cause me the most stress. They’re either where I don’t want them to be — i.e. the return line at Target — or nowhere to be found, kidnapped by sock gnomes and my poodles. I feel like I am constantly digging through my bucket of widowed socks for “the other” sock. In vain.

I recently reached such a critical mass of single socks that I began unapologetically wearing mismatched socks to the gym.

My friend Laura says my problem is that my socks are bored, so they’re running away. They’re all white or black.

Laura wears striped socks, toe socks, thigh-high socks, argyle and tie-dyed and homemade and theme socks for every occasion. Her “spring gym socks” are covered in bugs and turtles.
Laura’s socks live in a 30-gallon trashcan that she could hide a body in. More than 350 pairs of socks — 22 of which have monkeys on them. Laura doesn’t own a single plain pair, except for bright green thigh-highs. And she says she has never misplaced a sock.

“If you have fun socks, you can find their mate in the laundry really fast,” she says. “The lost sock is a white sock phenomenon.”

I don’t doubt her. She’s had a feeting frenzy ever since I met her at age 10. Some women spice up their outfits with wild shoes. But Laura is a self-proclaimed “lounger.” Lounging around the house drinking rum doesn’t lend itself to shoes.

“I can’t not buy socks,” she says. “I go to Target for shampoo and I end up with shampoo and socks. I go to PetSmart for food for the lizard and end up with socks.”

(Of course PetSmart has animal-themed socks, she says.)

Laura’s socks have sentimental value. She doesn’t like to get rid of old socks, so she learned how to fix holes. If she has trouble sleeping, all she has to do is slip into a pair of socks and she immediately nods off.

“I sometimes sleep totally nude but in socks,” she says matter-of-factly.

Which brings us to the question: Can socks be sexy? Laura insists they can. Striped socks are fashionable in a punk way. Argyle socks are hot on both men and women. Plus, if you need to shave or have gnarly feet, Laura adds, they “hide the gnarl.”

Image from Flickr user lux2night.

Whoever says Colorado has great weather doesn’t wear stilettos

Not to sound trite or elderly, but how ’bout this weather?

I shave my legs for spring, but the hair rushes back to the follicles before I make it outside, a form of self-preserving padding in anticipation of the impending blizzard. My dark winter wools are forced to co-mingle with my white cottons. And my skin, following Colorado’s schizophrenic lead, is simultaneously dry, chapped, oily and broken out, but only in one quarter-sized patch.

Then there is the man. Oh, the man.

As if putting together a quasi-matching outfit is not challenging enough for the retrosexual male, my boyfriend has become straight-up neurotic.

The first thing he does in the morning is text Google to check the weather. Then he argues with it. After his fight with his cell-phone screen, he must walk around the block with his finger in the air, checking the wind. On mid-April blizzard days, he checks with his middle finger before settling on his one of two outfit possibilities: jeans or shorts. Then he has to ask my permission:

“Can I wear this?” This is man-speak for, “Help. Me. I am scared.”

This week, Colorado has graced us with summer. So far. And this unexpected sun has transformed my boyfriend into the Phantom of the Opera. The right side of his face is white. The left side — the driver’s-side-window side — is lobster red, topped off with a one-armed farmer’s glow and a literal red neck.

So now he is pained between wearing a T-shirt and compounding his fry lines or wearing a sleeveless shirt and looking, in his earnestly distressed words, “like a total d-bag for a few days.”

My advice: Wear sunscreen, dude. There isn’t a cream, powder or plasma that I smear on my skin that doesn’t contain SPF. But still, I’m more of a Corpse Bride than a Malibu Barbie, and my transparent skin has been known to frighten small children.

Photo by Flickr user cindy47452.

Easter basketcase

I volunteered to watch the 3-year-olds at church on Easter, not because I know squat about kids, but because I was all about the unofficial fashion show.

Kids on any normal day? Shrug. I could take ‘em or leave ‘em (the latter usually occurs alongside a shrill scream – mine or theirs). But Easter is the one day still preserved for frilly dresses, parades of pink, patent leather and floppy hats. The church halls are a runway, and if you’ve got a good seat, you might even spot a lacy bonnet or a satin bow.

On kids, of course. Even sporting a fully primped toddler, most parents I saw dragged through Easter wearing jeans, sneakers and a disheveled look that expressed exactly how delightful it was to get little Karli in those white tights.

My class was flowering with girly girls, including one named Dakota or Takoma or Toyota or something like that, who carried an antique beaded clasp clutch (destroyed in the Play-Doh after 12 seconds).

The kids were supposed to wear name tags. But it felt criminal disrupting those precious ensembles with a sticky “Hi, my name is” written in dull crayon.

And anyway, I’m fundamentally opposed to name tags. I never know where to stick them.

Above the breast? My shirts are often too low-cut. Below the breast is basically my waist. And on the bull’s eye itself, the tag peels up at the edges if I don’t constantly re-smash it, which requires an awkward amount of public self-groping.

Oh, and don’t you dare give me a name tag with a pin. You’ve got a better chance of me sticking it through my eye than my chenille.

Speaking of name tags, my friend recently met a guy wearing a Sean Jean shirt and asked if that was his name. Later, she met a guy wearing G-Unit polo, and she asked if his shirt meant “gun it,” like when you hit the gas pedal, or if it was something French. You know “Gunet,” sort of like “Monet.”

Photo by Flickr user cory.cousins.

Style commandments: Thou shall not dress like thy husband

2/2/2006

I celebrated the Chinese New Year this week with my bathtub.

I dipped in Lush Fresh Handmade Cosmetics’ “Youki” bath bomb, named after Youki-Hi, one of the three most beautiful women ever, according to Far East tradition.

Now, I’m not a huge bather. I get bored just sitting there, puckering away in the water. Reading is dangerous because the pages get soggy. And staring at the ceiling can only tide my ADHD over for 47.2 seconds.

But the peach Youki bubbles managed to keep me in the tub for about five minutes, a record. The cypress oil smoothed my skin, even though the jasmine scent did remind me a bit of cheap Walgreens perfume.

I felt as silky as Youki-Hi herself when I was done. Except when the water drained and I saw the tub was stained peach – which raised my blood pressure again and sent me to my hands and knees scrubbing the tile. Now I stink of bleach.

Maybe that’s why they call it the Year of the Dog: because you start it on all fours, whining.

We were 20 minutes late to church on Sunday, but for good reason. I had to fend off a catastrophe.

We were walking out the door when I noticed my husband wearing the same outfit as me. My parents bought us both black and gray T-shirts with the church’s inconspicuous logo on them for Christmas.

Granted, I felt sketch wearing the church’s tee to church anyway (sort of like when you’re shopping at Express and realize the exact outfit you’re wearing is hanging on the mannequin). I should’ve known better.

But matching my man? I’d rather go naked and risk being eternally barred from God’s house.
The male-female clothing duo is a deadly sin. And the overall cheese factor is painful. A fashion sacrifice – so Old-Testament-school.

However, matching your boo in terms of color and style is a definitely. Style seems to be getting simpler (think: American Apparel on Pearl Street, which only sells uni-colored duds).
But there are still a lot of dangerous patterns out there which, if paired carelessly with your partner’s opposing wild pattern, could actually explode and alter the chemicals in the atmosphere. It’s true. A Far Eastern myth, I think.

I bought a new pair of Lux jeans at Urban Outfitters. I adore them because
a.) they actually fit (hurrah!); and
b.) the denim doesn’t stretch out on the bum after two wears, creating the “load” (aka adult diaper) phenomenon.

However, the jeans have two colossal, style-intentional holes in the knees. When my mom saw them, she seriously asked me if I had tripped and fallen.

Photo by Flickr user Puma Booma.

The tale of the traveling shoe (and other bedtime fashion stories)

10/20/2005

I thought I had packing down to an art.

One carry-on, no need to check in the luggage. I planned my wardrobe on a theme. All cool colors and basic styles, as to allow maximum mixing of clothing and overlapping of accessories and eye shadow tones.

Never again.

Immediately off the plane in Albuquerque, N.M., and I busted the heel off my black pump on the airport’s faux-brick floor. The thrifty packer that I was, I’d only brought one pair.

This sent the rest of my day veering out of control, a frenzied shopping quest to replace the shoe before my journalism conference the next morning.

Three blocks from my hotel, I discovered Ruby Shoesday boutique (www.rubyshoe.com). Fell deeply in love with an Audley London pink and gray wedge. It then broke my heart with a price tag that rivaled my car payment.

I called my husband, seeking financial support, but instead he laughed, saying wedges look like cars with a drop kit, or pumps with a gob of mud stuck underneath them.

Plus, he reminded me, they didn’t match my wardrobe theme.

I decided to never again attempt to defeat the Universal Law of Travel that dictates the smaller the traveler, the larger the luggage. I’m going full-out body-bag next trip.

New Mexico has a complex culture of style. On one hand, there are the sexy Audleys.
Then there are the bright colors splashed on every painting, piece of jewelry and, yes, item of clothing. In one shop, I found a rainbow beaded denim jacket. As if that wasn’t gaudy enough, they added fringe. It was the most painful thing I’d ever looked at. Until I turned around and was accosted by an embroidered vest to match.

Then there was me. Just minutes after stepping off the airport shuttle (and onto my busted heel, ouch), a woman asked me where I came from.

I was taken aback. “Do I scream tourist?” I wondered. “And is that a good thing (a la beaded vest) or a bad thing (never seen the heels break off a pair of designer wedges)?”

Back to the airport. I understand that airport travelers are exhausted. They’re fueled by the
empty preservatives of airplane food. They’re paranoid and humiliated after having stripped off their shoes, belts, coats and – is that an underwire bra? – at the security checkpoint.

But the airport is still a public space, i.e. not your bedroom. And the last time I checked, pajamas had not leaked into the mainstream as acceptable day-wear.

On the way home, gate B6 welcomed me with slippers, sweatpants and wrinkly T-shirts. As I sat next to a middle-aged woman wearing a doggie-print PJ top and matching cotton bottoms, I began to think that embroidered vest wasn’t so bad after all.

Photo by Flickr user Jason L. Parks.

I need to move

9/9/2005

A funny thing happened at mile 60 on my bicycle last week.

I began praising padded spandex shorts while contemplating the benefits of a fanny pack. As the sun swelled, I started to think of how I could really use a visor.

It was as if I had peddled away all fashion sense.

Maybe it was the 104-degree heat. Or a creepy survival mode to distract me from my burning hamstrings.

I was in Napa Valley on a weeklong cycling excursion. In other words, biking by day to negate the caloric toll of enough wine to intoxicate a medium-sized French village.

Just days earlier, I had composed a “negative ode to bike shorts,” swearing I would rather die than purposefully pad my bum. It seemed counterintuitive, after all the hours spent on the Stairstepper, de-padding it.

Then I dropped $80 on a black cycling “skort.” (Apparently I de-padded myself too much. Had to learn how to walk again with a numb gluteal region.)

Granted, the outer skirt concealed the 8-inch thick sponge between my Lycra-suctioned legs. But the experience of willingly purchasing spandex really pushed my fashion boundaries.

I thought I’d come back from Napa with chiseled thighs and a suitcase of fine wine.

Instead, I’m stuck with overpriced spandex and a more lenient eye for style. I don’t know which is scarier.

Photo by Flickr user Tom Olliver.

Skirting the issue

8/12/2005

I wore a jean skirt hiking at my dog’s third birthday party. Let me break down that sentence for you.

1.) “Dog birthday party” – Just because he’s covered in fur and feasts on bird poop doesn’t mean he’s not my baby. My toy poodle Quinnen’s party was themed “Take a hike.” That meant Quinnen and his doggie entourage on a Boulder Canyon trail. Quinnen sported a sailor costume. The blue complemented my outfit and his rhinestone collar. He looked extra masculine with his goatee.

You see, Quinnen is red, but the hair on his chin grows in white – obviously begging to be a goatee. He’s been wearing facial hair for about 6 months. Last week, his hairdressers at the Paw Spa in Longmont said they’ve had three other poodles come in requesting goatees. My dog is such a trend-setter.

2.) “Jean skirt during hiking” – I loathe shorts. I don’t own any. None. I work out in boot-cut yoga pants. Much cuter than frumpy, knee-enhancing shorts. (I used to joke that I could smuggle illegal drugs in the fat folds around the knees my mother passed down to me.)

There’s something about the bell shape of every pair of shorts I’ve ever tried on that just makes me feel (and look) nastily masculine. Even in middle school, I got sent to the principal’s office for refusing to wear shorts in PE class. That was during the Umbro craze. I wasn’t above ratted bangs and a spiral perm, but, still, I knew better than to Umbro myself.

Photo by Flickr user Looking Glass.

Dressing for the occasion

My style icon of the day. Photo by Flickr user Go®gO.

7/6/2005

Sometimes I feel like I have multiple personalities that hinge on whatever stories I’m going to write for the day. You see, I usually choose my outfit based on who I will be talking to. And as a general-assignment reporter, that is always changing.

Today, my look is Glamorous Geriatrics. I am an 80-year-old woman in a tan June Cleaver dress and close-toed orthopedic-style pumps. Taking it over the edge is a brown knit top I’m wearing over it, and my bracelet that looks like wood wall paneling. This outfit actually made me break out in a few new wrinkles.

I’m writing a story about a church fundraiser and spent my morning sitting with an older woman on her porch watching the stream bubble by.

I spent all day Tuesday at Penny Lane.. That meant a brown wife-beater, holy faded jeans, sandals and vintage jewelry.

I dress down for high schools, up for awards ceremonies and I pull out the designer names when I am doing fashion interviews.

Some might call it schitzo. I like to consider it versatile.

Why my (ex) in-laws want me to name my first-born son Ross

Originally published 6/2/2005

Ahh, how the Polish in-laws do love shopping at Ross.

I call the last two weeks of my life the Polish Invasion. I housed my husband’s parents and, with that, ate more Polska kielbasa than my American digestive track could handle. I won’t elaborate.
The in-laws were absolutely floored by the possibility of buying Calvin Klein jeans for less than $20. They discovered you can swathe yourself in marked-down BCBG, if only you have the determination to dig through the cluttered racks.

They visited the Ross stores in Fort Collins and Boulder at least – I am not kidding – 14 times in their 15 days here. While I was flipping through their vacation photos, there was even a picture of my father-in-law standing in front of the store giving a thumb’s up.

He was wearing the discounted Tommy Hilfiger button-up he’d bought there the previous day.

So deep was their love that, apparently, the sales associates thought my parents-in-law were moving in. During my mother-in-law’s final Ross excursion, she was browsing through the jackets. She came across a black jeans jacket that caught her eye. Then she realized it was her jacket, which she had accidentally left at the store a week earlier. Someone had found it, hung it on the rack and tried to sell it.

My mother-in-law was concerned that her coat must not be very cool if no one wanted to buy it after one week on the racks.

I told her she should be more concerned about those shoes she bought that didn’t have a price tag on them.

Photo by Flickr user capn madd matt.

Prom at 26

5/19/2005

For my 26th birthday, I went to the prom.

While the faces around me celebrated the end of their senior year, I celebrated the end of my first quarter-century.

This magical night started with me, two friends and my mom out for dinner in Loveland last weekend. A group of nervous, primped-up high-schoolers sat down next to us. We asked where prom was this year, and they said the Ranch near Windsor – coincidentally three minutes from one friend’s house.

We joked that we should crash the prom. Then we did. Well, all but my mom.

When I called my mom from the center of the dance floor (where the students were actually too self-conscious to dance), she kept repeating, “You are not at prom. Tell me you’re kidding.”

I wasn’t. I’d like to think I looked youthful and spry enough to fit in. But I did notice I was the only girl wearing a long black dress. Apparently the colors this spring in the Thompson School District are pink, red and white. I was bombarded with tiaras, shawls, layers and ruffles. I think I saw one girl’s entire breasts, her neckline plunged so low. On guys, I saw more bow ties and faux-haws (semi-mohawks) than my eyes could handle.

My favorite was a girl wearing clear heels that glowed red and blue when she walked, sort of like those sneakers for toddlers, except hers didn’t make goofy noises (I don’t think). She got them at Journeys Shoes in Fort Collins. There’s also a Journey’s at the Twin Peaks Mall in Longmont, in case you’re shopping for glow-in-the-dark pumps.

Then there are Strutz Shoes. These heels put another meaning on walking with a spring in your step. They feature a patented Heel Shock Absorber – basically a spring in the heel. Strutz claims this makes the shoes more comfortable by dampening the stress when you walk (http://www.strutzshoes.com/).

At prom, I wasn’t that fancy. I wore checkered pumps that totally clashed with my dress. They earned me a few disgusted glares.

Maybe I need to find a new scene where I can dress up.