All it took was a 3:30 a.m. bedtime, a 7:00 a.m. alarm, and exactly three pushes of the snooze button.
I hastily threw on my favorite pink Patagonia fleece, a pair of blue jeans, my boots, my coat and headed out.
I got my first “look” about 0.2 of a mile into my 1.1 mile walk to school — and it wasn’t from a disarmingly handsome stranger.
An older woman gave me an ever-so-slight glance; her eyes quickly darted up and down my frame as if to scan my outfit to memory. Her brow a bit furrowed and her chin held haughtily high, there was something decidedly unfriendly in her demeanor. I was surprised more than anything — Italian women never take their eyes of the street in front of them and, wearing a fleece and jeans, I was certainly not deserving of their admiration today.
I shrugged it off and continued my brisk morning stroll in my usual way — watching out for dog poop, watching out for Vespas and watching the other passersby.
As I realized I was probably going to be late and quickened my pace, I found myself walking behind an impeccably dressed woman: gleaming black patent leather Mary Jane heels, sheer black panty hose without even an inkling of a run, an ethereal floral scarf and a gorgeous red trench coat under which, I can only imagine, was a perfect dress to tie the outfit together. (Did I mention her hair looked perfect too?) While I huffed along under the weight of my computer-laden oversized purse, hair falling out of my ponytail, she positively floated on the sidewalk with her small black leather handbag perched on her elbow.
My impeccably dressed friend was, however, walking a bit too slow for my tight schedule. I passed her on the sidewalk, making sure to get one last glimpse of her entire outfit as I passed in much the same way as the older Italian woman had glanced at me (minus the furrowed brow).
There are only two reasons why someone, who needs to be paying attention to dog poop and Vespas, would risk looking at another person on a busy Florentine street — either they look good, or they look bad.
Suddenly it was quite clear as to why the older Italian woman had glanced in my direction — in her mind, I looked like a slob. I was the only woman (in eyesight, at least) wearing jeans. And I was certainly the only woman wearing a fleece outside outside of the house.
And it was not just this one older woman who seemed to flinch at the sight of me. I got another “look” from a group of teenage Italian girls (they travel in packs here too). On top of her lux wardrobe, a “cool” Italian teenage girl will have a crossbody satchel, a metallic one tone winter jacket, and of course, an enormous motorcycle helmet to let you know she is the proud “owner” of a Vespa. I have none of those things: Welcome back to middle school.
After this walk to school, I made an oath to myself that I would never walk out of the house in a fleece and jeans again. Yet, yesterday, after a 4:00 a.m. bedtime, a 7:00 a.m. alarm and exactly three pushes of the snooze button, I found myself in the same predicament.
I put on another pair of jeans and a different fleece. As much as I want to embrace Italian culture, every girl needs her beauty sleep.
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