The other side of Volvo-style

For parents who always expounded the virtues of not just proper grammar but beautifully constructed proper grammar, my Mother and Father sure did stick me with one hell of pronunciation pickle when it comes to my given name and the nickname by which I was exclusively known until the age of 24 when my graduate school adviser advised me to "select" something else.

"Anything else," I believe he put it.

But well before I arrived at that rather humbling moment, it was at the tender age of eight when I confronted the more tell it like it is half of my parental unit using my already seasoned brand of passive-aggressiveness for advice on how to remedy the frustration that was my constantly mispronounced names:

"Dad..."

"Mmmhmm?"

"Can I ask you something? It's important."

"Of course, what is it?"

"How would you say the word, 't-a-n-n-i-n-g'?"

"The word, what? Uh...tanning. Why?"

"How would you say, 'p-i-n-n-e-d'?"

"Pinned."

"What about, 'r-u-n-n...'"

"Is there a point to this exercise, Johanna, and if so, are we nearing it? I have exams to grade and..."

"The point, Dad, is that I don't understand why the second syllable of my given name and the first syllable of my nickname are pronounced with a short 'o' when every other word with that vowel/consonant arrangement has taught me to use a short 'a'."

(turning away from his desk and toward me, lowering his bifocals, smiling)

"Good grief, you. I've created a monster."

What does this dilemma -one for which a satisfying resolution wasn't reached until my teenage years when I finally discovered "Johanna" and "Hannie" were originally assigned to me with traditional German pronunciations and thus not meant to be held to the same phonetic rules as their American counterparts- have to do with what happened to me at the airport on Monday or the Volvo-style epiphany to which I alluded in yesterday's post?

Plenty, actually.

Due to my parents' insistence I assume a name with an affectation unnatural to those in this country, people will more likely get my name wrong than right. Over time, I've trained myself to let the "Joannas," the "Johannahs" and the "Hannees" slide right by, correcting only those with whom I knew I would have a close and continuing relationship and being sure to do so in an almost self-deprecating manner so as to preempt any unnecessary apologies that might follow.

Likewise, now that my hair is at a length more commonly associated with the opposite sex, people are much more likely to misidentify my gender. Big deal. Sunday was not the first time, and I don't expect it will be the last. As with the name situation, I don't see any real benefit to my raising the issue with the Dereks of the world other than to boost my own sense of "I'm right/you're wrong"-edness, which frankly, by the end of the day, smacks more of pathetic than victorious.

And now, finally, the epiphany.

In the past two months, I've had encounters with three women, all of these women extremely well-intentioned and all of them brazen enough to approach me, a complete stranger, at a party, on the street and in a department store for no other reason than to pay me an "I love your _____" compliment.

But the thing was, unlike the majority of admirers who offer their "I love your _____" praise and move on, this trio of women took their liking of my shoes, bracelet and coat a step further by unknowingly misidentifying them as items they just plain weren't.

And let me be clear, when I say misidentify, I mean really, really misidentify.

If you'll recall, a woman with something I like to call "Volvo-style" is a woman who dresses no less luxe than her Lamborghini lot-mate but does so in a much less overt, much less attention-whoring manner; she's the one in Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, not Cavalli and Fendi. Not surprisingly, I aspire to the idea of the former, and up until a couple of months ago when I had my first of the three aforementioned interactions, I thought I had been well on my way.

Thought would be the operative word.

I was wrong, for a Volvo woman, I have come to realize, is much more than just her sleek paint job and minimalist high-end stereo system, she is also the embodiment of fashion humility, someone who, even when given a gift-wrapped opportunity to sit alone atop braggart butte prefers the view down below where she can comfortably mingle with all models and makes. She owns a room gradually, quietly, more effectively.

A Volvo woman is the type who, when asked by an unobservant but awfully sweet woman at a formal event if she, too, purchased her "awesome" patent leather pumps at Ross for $29.99 would smile and either falsely acknowledge she had, or if white lies aren't her thing, avoid the question altogether by offering up a compliment on what a fantastic bargain her new acquaintance had found in her admittedly "very similar" shoes.

She would not, however, scrunch her face into a mess of hurt, insult and fury, and without thinking, launch into a story of how she'd bought her MARNI pumps at SAKS and how they'd been her SPLURGE of the Christmas season and how even though they were EXPENSIVE what was the point of owning well-made DESIGNER SHOES if one didn't wear them out every chance one got?

Believe me, no sooner had the words tumbled out of my mouth than I was looking for a hiding spot and an Opus Dei cilice. I might've been wearing a simple black dress with small onyx studs but my outburst made me feel as tacky, overaccessorized and logo-emblazoned as Eve circa 2002.

The subsequent interactions concerning my bracelet and Winter coat were not nearly as regretful as the one with my shoes, but all three incidents forced me to recognize I'm very much a Volvo in training at this point, because even though it may not be overt, it may not be exclusive and it may not be frequent, there is no denying I still flush with misguided pride over the enhanced status wearing a higher quality bit or bauble affords me.

In sum, I've let my dentist call me "Joanna" for years, and I laugh it off when airport security mistakes me for a man; it's only fitting the next time a nice stranger calls my ____ "awesome" and compares their ____ to mine -whether there is or isn't a several hundred dollar difference between the two- I will be much more careful not to let the little bit of Lamborghini I have inside of me creep its way down the driveway again.

How I wish I could've pressed 'pause'

I intentionally left work a little earlier than usual last night.

My 5pm exit didn't have anything to do with needed prep time for a 'special someone' dinner reservation or at-home hydrating before a 'single and so okay with it' happy hour.

No, I left when I did yesterday because of you, or rather because of what many of you have been saying about my lack of DC-centric posting lately. After the dozenth or so "you've lost your direction" public profession, I thought I'd give myself some fresh air, say "hello" to Josh manning the door at Camelot and perhaps pick up a confidence-boosting smile or two.

Before I even took my sweet Valentine time, strolling on L for a couple of blocks, then shifting over to K and finally back to M, I had already identified the singular and specific reason for the paucity of this blog's bread and butter bitchiness in recent weeks.

Put simply, DC women have been looking much better lately.

True, I'm taking fewer lunch breaks and keeping my head in a more to-the-body tuck to avoid another season of "naturally" bronzed cheeks, but from what I've seen -or in some respects, not seen- during the 20 minutes or so of daylight I take in each morning, there aren't nearly as many major offenses walking the ConnAve corridor as there were last year at this time.

No new ones, anyway.

Honestly, how many times and in how many different ways can a girl berate her city's female professional population for walking the weekday streets in the same strappy evenings sandals, boxy poly-blend button-downs and denim skirts?

I'm not implying I've reached the end of my creative rope, not in the least, but that of which I am patently sure is how I work best, and that has everything to do with inspiration -- feeling it, being driven by it and producing persuasive pieces as a result of it.

For the first time during my young tenure as a blogger, I haven't felt very inspired by what I've seen on these sidewalks. There's been nothing particularly good nor bad, just a whole lot of hovering around the status-quo, which in itself could be fodder for an interesting post, I suppose, but call me nutty, I found my insights from what I saw at The Coterie and the prettiness of New York Fashion Week welcome breaks from the doldrums of rehashed 'DC dont's' of posts past.

So yesterday, a bit disheartened, I set out for a walk with no destination, no timetable and no real purpose other than to soak in the view and like I said, to offer Josh his daily greeting.

As I stepped from carpet to concrete and realized it was much milder than I anticipated (thank goodness, as I'd forgotten my gloves), I saw almost immediately a highly abnormal level of fabulousness going on in front of me.

"What in the world...," I thought to myself as not one, not two, not three but four consecutive women in slim, leg-baring black skirts (or dresses?), tasteful high heels and perfectly tailored showpiece coats -one each in red, ivory, black and camel- whizzed by me in a frenzied click-click-click sprint.

One of them, I do believe, was even rocking the sheer black hose with sexy back-seaming.

Before I could process what it was I'd just witnessed, another chic treat in a navy military-style wool trench, side-tipped Dita-style hat and these precious Marc by Marc Jacobs peep-toe pumps nearly sideswiped me by the CVS at ConnAve and L. And no sooner had she passed did two others emerge -one with flawless Hillary eyes and the other wearing that metallic Alice+Olivia party topper I so coveted but could never find in my size- by the flower stand outside Farragut North's K Street exit.

As this last one rushed past me, I happened to catch a few seconds of her phone conversation, and suddenly, it all made sense.

"I can't talk now, Janelle, I've got to get his present, wrap it, pick through all the shit cards that are left at Border's, find something that isn't totally lame, write something that isn't totally lame, and get to Citronelle by 6:15..."

It may not mean a style revolution is nigh, it may not mean that these women who looked so tremendous in their dressy garb won't fall victim to an unfortunate polo-and-khakis Casual Friday uniform today, but I gotta tell you, there was a reason why my 15 minute walk home clocked in at triple that time last night.

Because of you, gussied up DC women, my wanting inspiration got the adrenaline injection it so sorely needed.

I just hope the feeling you all had of knowing you were the prettiest girl in the room and realizing that the confidence you summoned through that great dress, that fancy hat, that sexy kohled eye or that special pair of shoes doesn't have to be a once annual experience.

And on that note, have a great long weekend.

best,
Johanna

p.s. the red suede Marchesa dress with rose-bunch shoulders pictured at top is what I would have worn last night had I been able to locate that direct easy-button transport into Georgina Chapman's life...damn, where did I put that?

Epiphany: 'dress-for-success' ain't just for the office

Let's face it, whether we're in the city, the country or the suburbs, in a pulsating nightclub, an ESPN Zone or a local dive bar, we as females -small and large, alike- know the easiest and most reliable way to avoid having to open up our pocketbooks and pay for a drink is to put forth a flagrant display of tits and/or ass.

Not saying it's right, not saying it's wrong, just saying from what I've heard and what I've witnessed, it's about 94% effective.

And if you're a blonde with streaky, chunky highlights and a set of acrylic French tips, tack on three more percentage points.

Because of that, because there is such a predictable male effect to the cause that is scant female dress, how can I fault all those plunging metallic halter tops and low-rise dance pants enrobed women to whom I shot "don't touch me, don't touch my shoes" looks last Saturday night at K St. Lounge? When I think about it, these women were there for a set of premeditated purposes, chief among them to meet men whose lady-frame pawing would make them feel desirable and whose open wallet policies would enable the lovely feeling of their last inhibition slip-slip-slippin' away.

Now, if I had seen a pair of fur-trimmed biker boots and a bejeweled romper with cutouts and built-in balconnet bra dancing tabletop where we started the evening, I'd have just cause for the "here's what you should've worn, instead" judgmentalies. Since that wasn't the case and since HRL and I were the ones who committed the venue-inappropriate offense by wearing into the sweaty sin-pit our delicate cocktail dresses and formal overcoats, I realize now, in this moment, even though it would be more satisfying to rip these girls apart, Bebe accessory by Bebe accessory, to do so would be incredibly hypocritical. Therefore, I'll just fold my hands, smile and nod deferentially and be darn sure to have on-hand a more appropriate little number for the next time my dear friend wants to explore K St. nightlife.

In a way, the aforementioned tabletop dancer and I are more alike than most of you might think. Sure, we both throw down the same quote-making gesture whilst performing the 'running man', we both think there's no point in buying fishnets that aren't full of rhinestony goodness, but there's something beyond the obvious -- a deeper, more substantive lifestyle parallel: just like I believe a polished office look can help give me an extra professional edge, she too runs a dress-for-success operation.

Same concept, slightly different definition of "success."

K Street's dual personality: Bespoke by day, Bebe by night

K Street, between 13th and 20th, is one of my favorite stretches of sidewalk to click on a new iMix, pop a few Ice Breakers Berry Sours and watch some of the most powerful men in my city preen just like the pretty peacocks you see emblazoned on their $135 Thomas Pink ties.

Some like to see the skinny-denim-clad sort the U Street corridor has to offer; some like the retro-fabulous rainbow invasion found wandering the streets of Penn Quarter and Chinatown; still others prefer the popped collars and Nicole Richie lookalikes populating Georgetown.

Those city pockets and their respective crowds are all fine and good in their own distinct ways, but for me, when it comes to on-the-street eye candy, I want the Willy Wonka fantasy factory that is K Street's lobbyist/lawyer row.

I've lived in DC for three and a half years, the last two and a half in my current, Dupont proximate building. I don't go out socially a tremendous amount -maybe once every other weekend- but by no means would I consider myself a stranger to the nightlife in our fair city.

Until Saturday night, that is, when I came face-to-face with a disturbing urban underbelly that quite honestly I would never have guessed existed within DC proper, much less four blocks from my home, three blocks from the White House and smack dab in the middle of my precious, suit-heavy K Street.

For those of you who haven't had the displeasure of experiencing the weekend scene at this street's eponymous lounge, I'd advise you to continue missing out unless the idea of having tight-on-tighter ensembles like this one flush up against your person while asshat men reeking of Mystic tan and low ambition attempt to bed you with gems like, "your friend's tits are amazing" and "you know where I'd like to put that mouth of yours?" sounds like a good way to waste $24 on cover and coat-check charges.


The good news in all of this is that despite my shock and sadness to see unimaginably unflattering and wrong-message-sending skanky clubwear in my favorite part of DC, this does present me with the perfect opportunity to run with reader Sarah Anne's "If you like ______, how about ______, instead?" idea.

I'm not yet sure with what I'll fill in that second blank, but so far, I already know I'll be inserting these into the first one:

- frayed denim mini skirts/shorts
- muffin-top creating skirts/pants
- "Real Housewives of Orange County" tops
- tube tops/dresses
- wrap-up-the-leg strappy stilettos
- acrylic French tips

Look for this inaugural installment later today or, depending on how many silver peacocks are out and about during the 65-degree lunch hour, possibly tomorrow.

p.s. here's that full-length photo I promised (photog credit goes to HRL):

Ze best of ze best -- a DC style success in three parts

Though posted a bit later in the week than I'd anticipated, here is the more promising set* - a follow-up to those brutalized in this piece - from my lovely-while-it-lasted adventure into the world of being single, sexy and social.

Two out of three isn't so bad, no?

Venue: Tour de Champagne, French Embassy

(dress code: semi-formal, black-tie optional)

Black dress with just-the-right-size white polka dots in the style of this Oscar de la Renta but tea-length and with a straight-edged, to-the-throat bateau neckline. Barely-there black** sandals very similar to Natalie Portman's favorite red carpet shoe. Flawless, simple eye makeup. Short red toe and finger nails (no chips). Coiffed shoulder-length bob.

Black silk 3/4-sleeve wrap dress in a style similar to this Diane von Furstenberg. Black jacquard-print patent-leather slingbacks. Katie Holmes' hair. Perfectly-applied black liner with just a hint of "cat" detail and kohl smudge. Small red doctor's-bag-style satchel.

Black satin trapeze-style tunic with delicate lace neckline similar to this one from my beloved Mona & Holly jumper. Black opaque tights. Black lizard-skin sky-high stiletto boots I'm pretty positive were of this "If I had a sugar daddy..." ilk. Tight, nape-of-the-neck chignon. Great false lashes, thick black eyeliner, glassy clear lip. Silver box clutch.

*I'm not sure how much of a DC style success these women represented given that all three were French, but at the very least we can all learn a little by example

**they were actually light pink (egads!), but I changed them to black in my mind

Ze worst of ze worst -- a DC style disaster in five parts

In no particular order, here are the five ensembles from three separate venues that stood out not only for their wearers' poor execution (fit, color scheme, etc.) but also for the absolute WTF-edness of the overall "look."

Venue #1: Tour de Champagne, French Embassy

(dress code: semi-formal, black-tie optional)

Beige strapless tube dress. Chandelier-style faux diamond necklace. Slouchy Frye boots. Messy ponytail. Chipped bubble-gum pink nail polish. Extremely dry skin -- think visible scales.

Baggy black low-rise sequined bell-bottoms. "Dressy" black t-shirt. Thick brown bifocals. Unstyled shoulder-length Mom-bob. Square-toed one-inch pilgrim pumps. No makeup. Again, very dry skin.

Skin-tight teal satin sheath that puckered painfully at the sleeves and across the stomach, hips and rear -- every time she downed a heavily-pâtéd crostini, I could see another bulge begin to form. Stubbed-to-white black pointy-toed pumps. Good dramatic eye makeup but thick, poorly-blended pancake-y foundation.

on the bubble:

Nondescript short-sleeved, shoulder-padded black sheath. Busily-patterned black tights. Double-strapped, distressed brown leather round-toed block-heeled slingbacks. Thick librarian glasses. So in need of lotion I came thisclose to demanding she let me rub her down, neck to toes, with my coconut/olive oil salve.

Floor-length ivory satin deep V-neck/V-back evening gown. Jewel-encrusted sandals. Enormous black Marc by Marc Jacobs turnlock tote.

Heaving, salacious cleavage. Black wide-netted fishnets. One-two-three...seven visible tatts. Magic marker-looking black eyeliner. Chipped cherry-red toe and nail polish.

Venue #2: Lotus, K Street, between 14th/15th St.

Kite-shaped handkerchief-printed backless "blouse." Painted-on yoga pants. Poor man's Edie Sedgwick eye makeup. Dark brown-lined lips. Smirnoff Ice.

Venue #3: The Park at 14th, 14th Street, between K/I St.

White pearlized pleather (?) mini skirt. Black halter with large metal O-ring detailing in front and back. Straps-up-the-calf, raffia-wedged platform sandals. Alternating inch-wide sectionals of white-blond highlights and dark-brown "natural" hair color. French pedi.

*'ze best of ze best' post to come later in the week...

An unusually social weekend

For the first time in recent memory, I was busy this weekend.

And by "busy," I don't mean busy with my usual Saturday/Sunday commitments like documentary watching, dog snuggling and late-night exercising but rather more age-appropriate fare like fancy DC event attending, club hopping and new "friend" making.

I don't think I'll make a habit of keeping this kind of weekend schedule - I only have so many party dresses, after all - but I will admit, there was one major benefit to being a social butterfly:

finding blog fodder -- lots and lots of truly horrific blog fodder

Being the studious little fashionista bee I am, I stopped mid-sip of Bollinger at "Tour de Champagne," mid-swig of Amstel Light at The Park and mid-gulp of Diet Coke at American Gangster to take very descriptive notes with my cell phone (thank GOD for the full keyboard on my enV) of five of the most unfortunately dressed women I have ever come across in this city.

Some ill-fitted, some double-take trashy and some in low-rise, black-sequined bell-bottoms with square-toe work pumps and bifocals.

Check back later in the day for the full breakdown.

And speaking of poorly-dressed, here I am looking much the opposite on my way to the aforementioned Champagne tasting -- my first fancy-pants DC event:

Please don't denim the pencil

There are a select few wardrobe components that, in my opinion, are so utterly perfect in their current iteration that they have reached their style zenith.

In other words, they will not, shall not and cannot be improved upon.

The simple, unembellished black peep-toe, the fits-your-frame-just-right black sheath, the classic trench -- these items hold spots four, three and two, respectively, on my short list.

The one article of clothing that if it were up to me would be remembered and worn only in its simplest, blackest, formal-fabric-ed state, however, is the pencil skirt.

Don't bedazzle it, don't put pockets on it, don't give it an animal-print or weigh it down with chunky buttons.

And please, please don't denim it.

High-waisted or otherwise.

I've made my feelings known for non-jeans denim, and I understand my it's-a-fabric-of-last-resort view isn't universally - or even popularly - accepted. And I'm comfortable with that. Preferences and the strong expression thereof, after all, are healthy, not to mention a necessity for one writing a fashion blog.

Whether you agree with me or not that denim skirts are best left to those who attend rodeos and elementary school, can we at least come together in recognizing that a denim pencil skirt is not the same as its traditional, more professional black wool-crepe counterpart? And if we can align on that view, can we take it a step further and nod our heads in agreement that similar to jeans and a pair of black dress trousers, or a jean jacket and a suit coat, the wardrobe components that best complement each of these skirts are going to be different?

Yes? Good.

Then please help me relay that message to the woman I saw this afternoon on M Street between 19th and 20th who wore her no doubt J. Jill-purchased beauty with black pointy-toed pumps, a navy pinstripe blazer and an off-white silk shell.

DC men are all sorts of classy

Time: just past 9:30 this morning

Location: ConnAve/M St. intersection (Burberry side)

Characters: 30-something suit, myself
Outfit: this and these (yes, again)

In tow: everyone's favorite Halloween candy carrier (see below)

"Excuse me, you aren't the girl who writes that style blog, are you?"

(turning down - not off, but down - "The Power of Love" on my iPod)

"Yeah, that's me," I replied, trying hard not to sound too excited at being recognized.

"Wow, my girlfriend _______ is like, obsessed with...what is it called, 'A Woman's Job Isn't Serious' or 'An Excuse for a Job...'"

"'A Serious Job is No Excuse.'''

"That's it, yeah, she loves it. Totally loves it."

(taking off my headphones)

"Thank you, that really means a..."

"I have to admit, I sometimes read it, too. You know, at work and stuff. And when _______ isn't home or when she's watching one of those stupid Hugh Grant movies or when she's pretending to work out at the gym, emphasis on 'pretending,' if you know what I mean. (scanning me up and down) She certainly doesn't have the, uh...the discipline you have when it comes to exercise and staying toned."

"Uh-huh, okay, well, thank..."

"And it shows, too. You look good. Reeeally good."

(more no-so-subtle body scans)

"Would you mind if I took a piece of your candy, Joanna?" he asked, playfully nudging my shoulder with his own.

"Sure, go ahead," I said, not bothering to correct the mispronunciation and hoping both the gesture and the disinterested tone in which I spoke would end our growing-more-awkward-by-the-second conversation, "just don't take the Skittles, I only have a few of those."

"Hot and she likes to give orders. I like that combo. How about (waving the fun-size Twix he'd liberated three inches from my face) instead of this candy, you give me your phone number?"

"I'm not really interested, thanks."

"Oh come on, I was kidding," he said, his voice taking on a markedly less friendly pitch as I inched farther away, my eyes laser-focused on the 11-10-9... countdown to my right.

"You're not gonna blog about this, are you? I mean, I was just kidding around. I have a girlfriend, it's not like I was really serious."

(light turns green)

"Enjoy the Twix," I called out to him over my shoulder, "and be sure to check out the blog this afternoon -- what did you say your name was again? Brad?"

*on an unrelated but equally alarming note, I switched from 'Russian Navy' back to 'Midnight in Moscow' this weekend after I, too, discovered the blue had left a wicked stain on my nails.

I'm pretty sure the boss doesn't want to see your jacked-up heels

I know not every professional woman in this city shares my view on the notion that a serious job is no excuse for turning a blind eye - or in many cases, a pair of blind eyes - to how one looks as they bridge the divide between home and office.

I realize for some of you, whether it's out of necessity or preference or whatever, clothes are just...well, clothes. Nothing more. And certainly nothing over which you find yourself fretting, fawning or foregoing meals on a daily basis.

But in the spirit of a post I wrote a few months back in which I questioned one young woman's decision to introduce the belly shirt to a Sunday morning church service, I would like to here and now raise the issue of another peculiar - and in my opinion, equally offensive - lapse in think-of-how-it-affects-others judgment.

And that would be the jacked-up, cracked-up, haven't-seen-a-bottle-of-Jergens-since-the-Clinton-administration heels stuffed into a pair of besequinsed too-small, peep-toed, kitten-heeled slides.


There are few female body parts that when taken care of properly have the ability to distract (at least temporarily) from a busted mug, a bulging belly, jumbly thighs or a shiteous haircut. Gorgeous, fresh skin does the job, a taut pop of ass definitely goes a long way, and the last feature on this shortlist, the feature that can really boost a 5 to a 6.5 and the reason why so many of us spend more time and money at the salon than we should or can afford is a pretty, well cared-for pair of feet.

But as I saw yesterday evening at the intersection of 17th and L, the power that on one hand can upgrade a woman's hotness factor has the power to down-down-downgrade it as well.

You wouldn't expose your colleagues to a rash on your inner thigh, you wouldn't share with the world an infected, ingrown nail, you wouldn't find it appropriate to wear a top that highlighted a giant whitehead on your back, so why, why are so many women - not just the aforementioned one, but throngs and throngs of callous and fissure-flaunting females in my pocket of the city - under the misconception that their so-dry-they-look-diseased feet have the right to see the light of day in an office setting?

To all the women who favor the slide, I implore you, either lotion 'em up, or keep 'em well encased in a non-slingbacked pump, boot, sneaker, hell even one of those stupid-looking pootie things.

Because from now on, I'd like to keep down my $5.49 Infinite Orange smoothie, thank you.

"I think I'll just order it online, thanks..."

Super cute, right?

That's what I thought, too, when I slipped into this 'Cappella' empire-waisted blouse in rich navy silk with delicate pleated mesh detailing, textured sweetheart neckline and keyhole back.

But the question at hand, the question that really mattered as I did my usual twirl-and-tilt at every angle in every mirror available to me was not whether this Nanette Lepore top was super cute but rather was it super cute enough to cancel Friday's grocery delivery, not buy that new pair of running shoes I desperately needed and to force myself to do the whole brownbag lunch thing for the next two weeks using only the non-perishables my Mother sent me in this month's care package so as to finance its hefty $215 price-tag?

As I weighed the pros (blouse = mine) and the cons (body = malnourished), did some additional posing and took some additional photos, my "I think I'll get it!" moment was suddenly interrupted by the extraordinarily rude salesgirl who not only had the audacity to stick her head through the sliver of unavoidable openness in the lime green curtain with nary a knock on the adjacent wall but who did so solely to determine if I "was done yet" so she could let another person who had "more than one item" use the dressing room I was oh-so-inconveniently occupying.

Once I made it clear to both Ms. More Than One Item and ______, the woman "helping" me, I'd be staying a few more minutes until I'd made a final decision, the latter proceeded to give me a very audible huff followed by a not so subtle don't-worry-she'll-be-gone-soon facial expression to the former.

I dig the industrial chic design they've created at Cusp, I've come to accept and even prefer the fact they've chosen to organize their wares by style and not designer, but frankly, because of the above-and-beyond poor service I've encountered on not one but five separate occasions, I made the decision on Saturday never to step foot in there again, free cookies or no free cookies. I'm not saying I have anything against Cusp the company - hardly - but I am saying the atmosphere in the Georgetown installation created by the overt, you're-no-one-unless-you're-someone attitudes held by the their salespeople is so pervasive and such a should-I-or-shouldn't-I-get-it? buzzkill that I'm better off just going straight from Zara to Barney's Co-op in the future. And since there's not a single item in Cusp's inventory I can't find on Bop, Active Endeavors, Pink Mascara or Saks' sites - and in some cases, for quite a bit less cash - I have no qualms about crossing Cusp off my Georgetown retail rotation.

Because frankly, I'd sooner head to Smith Point on a Saturday night than fork over a single dollar of my precious clothing budget toward the sales quotas on which the brats over at 3030 M St. seem to be so singularly focused.

More Nanette Lepore super-cuteness:

"Mom, you know I don't *do* Missoni."

For me, a trip to Saks is about as close to Dorothy-goes-to-Oz as a girl who loves clothes, shoes, makeup and professional-level sycophantic treatment can get.

Whether I'm doing a head-tilted sigh at the sight of the perfect hug my frame enjoys from this two-toned Tibi dress in my manse sized dressing room, sidling up to the incredibly hot Jordanian woman (picture a slightly younger Shohreh Aghdashloo) giving her incredibly hot, incredibly hands-on demonstration at the Clive Christian perfume counter, or wading among tables of Prada boots, Jimmy Choo sandals and the perfection of Stuart Weitzman pumps in the Shoe Salon, Saks is, from floor bottom to floor top, a fantasy land in which I could - and did this past Saturday afternoon - expire hour after hour without a whit of disappointment, boredom or guilt.

The closest parallel I can draw between my penchant for wandering every last square of the square footage of my favorite department store is that of an art lover traversing exhibits at the MOMA, Sotheby's or the Musée d'Orsay. Neither of us, ostensibly, is there to buy or to even consider the prospect of one day being able to do so but rather only to look, to admire and to find and feel empowerment through the inspiration of design. Some of this inspiration is found in likely (Rebecca Taylor, Theory and Lida Biday) sources while others (Julie Haus, Prada and Miu Miu) crop up in less likely but often more satisfying (read: thought-provoking) places.

Unfortunately, though, Saks is not an art museum and most of the wayfarers who enter its double set of double-doors come equipped with five-digit credit limits, commitment-free afternoons and not maybe-I'll-buy but rather what-else-can-I-buy? attitudes.

The sight of women who were obviously trying on with the intent to buy rather than to simply try on to try on as I did (and still do) used to swell in me a real sense of envy and insecurity. I was so sure the salespeople - who were almost always as aloof and discriminating as the customers themselves - could tell right away from my gape-mouthed "this is just so beautiful" expressions and drawn-out fingertip touches upon the fabric that I was going to be of no assistance in reaching their monthly sales quotas. Frankly, I just looked too obviously impressed by everything to be the kind of person who routinely woke up and stood in front of a closet full of $285 short-sleeve button-ups, $580 cashmere sweater dresses and $970 almond-toed Italian-sewn leather 3.75-inch stiletto boots. I was the outsider, I was Vivian in Beverly Hills minus the Lycra mini dress and over-the-knee pleather boots -- I knew it and they knew it.

As maturity set in, the envy and insecurity waned and I began to feel less like Andie at Steff's house party around the privileged, my previously once annual Saks sojourn turned into seasonal and eventually, bimonthly visits.

No longer do the well-heeled nor the judgmental get to me, for I now understand and appreciate who they are and how they came to carry that black AmEx:

Some of the women who tote piles of Chanel and St. John's into private dressing rooms have achieved this luxurious lifestyle through conscious his-life-for-mine trades; some of the women who plunk down their plastic to purchase that $4,445 Zac Posen evening gown are able to do so because they've worked their Pilates-earned asses off at the firm to make partner - and a healthy six-figure salary - by 35; and the rest, well, I have no idea how they've positioned themselves financially in the way they have, but I do know in one way or another they've earned it through some kind of sacrifice.

But even though I now feel as free as a bird to float through and sigh over Saks' this and Saks' that, as Bret Michaels so brilliantly imparts in his most powerful power ballad, I discovered on Saturday that every rose does indeed have its thorn.

In this case, the thorn that pricked its way right through my zen bubble was a self-entitled no-older-than-15-year-old back-to-school shopper whose dismissive, "Mom, you know I don't do Missoni" response to the sweater dress her Mother deferentially presented to her sourpussed, be-pimpled, barely-developed girl of a daughter just about incited me to "Don't you get just how lucky you are to be here?" action.

But just as I was about to interject, take the Mother's side and put this gawky brat in a two-on-one verbal chokehold, I heard this: "Oh sorry, honey, I did know that. What about Marc Jacobs? He's got some cute things, don't you think? Or what about Diane von Furstenberg? Doesn't Sarah like her clothes? Sarah always dresses so well...honey? Honey?"

It was at that point I decided I'd had enough for the day, paid my last respects to the Mona Lisa, slipped out the side door and made my way back to Kansas via the Red Line.

Makeup *does* matter

As an educated and empathetic member of our politically correct society, I'm supposed to think women of all sizes are equally beautiful, women who wear certain items of clothing regardless of their size deserve "you go, girl!" approval and all attempts at au naturel from the neck-up are to be lauded for their refreshing this-is-me realness.

I'm not going near that first one (not today, anyway) and you know well my "earn it first" view on the second, which leaves me to opine on the seemingly ubiquitous-in-DC contagion I like to refer to as the "I think I don't need makeup" face.

Look at Chloë Sevigny above in her fancy green Balenciaga party dress at this year's Costume Institute Gala. Whether you favor or frown upon her frock is immaterial to the argument at hand, what matters is that we all agree this is indeed not a casual event, not a casual style selection and her casual barely-there makeup palette not only looks curiously out of place but in fact distracts from the glamour going on down below.

What a difference some sheer gloss, a thicker coat of mascara, a subtle swipe of under-eye concealer and a touch of peachy cheek stain would've made.


Now let's take a look at the other end of the spectrum.

Though I make a point not to pick on pregnant women, since Christina hasn't officially acknowledged her growing bump, I feel in the clear to use her - here, in all her painted-lady glory - as an example of how too much makeup, especially in a casual tank-top setting, has the same disconcerting, distracting effect as a naked face in tandem with a ball gown.

As much as Chloë and Christina's makeup mismatches bring a frustrated, "Why? Why would you do that?" furrow to my recently threaded brow, what I saw yesterday evening on my way home from work far surpassed either one in the WTF category.

It's a rare occasion when a woman in the NW corridor catches and holds my attention, but last night around 6:15, I found myself going out of my way to remain a few strides behind a beautifully sculpted female, the likes of which I had not seen in-person in many, many months. Tall and athletic with thick, chestnut Pantene-commercial hair, a perfect pop of ass and killer legs, this woman, from behind, was not just head-turning but rather the exact image conjured in my head each time I'm tempted to reach for the Edy's Slow-Churned instead of my running shoes.

Beyond her physique, however, there was even more over which to fawn, namely the just right drape of her light grey heather skirt suit over her hips and shoulders - two geographical locations women in this city hardly ever get right - and her simple, elegant black three-inch round-toed stiletto pumps. Clearly, I thought to myself, this was a woman who takes pride in earning her shape and goes to great pains to wear clothes to flatter the fruits of her WSC labors.

After walking five blocks out of my way and realizing, no thanks to the haunting lyrics and melody of "Wicked Game" that what I was doing might be considered, oh, I don't know, stalking, I decided I would at the next intersection shoot her a quick, I-like-what-you're-sellin' smile, turn left and head home.

But no sooner had Chris Isaak faded into Feist that I reached that next intersection, found myself shoulder-to-shoulder with my girl-crush and immediately felt my heart drop clear to the curb.

It's not that she was a butta face - quite the opposite - but despite her cute nose, sterling eyes and sun-kissed color, this otherwise polished, put-together, professional woman wasn't wearing a single stitch of makeup. And believe me when I say this spare approach was not in her best interest. An oily T-zone, deep, dark circles beneath her eyes, a patch of reddish acne on her chin and and another on her left jawline -- this woman looked like any and all of us do in the morning, but the difference was, she actually stepped out of her home without any attempt to cover up or blend away her very common, very easily minimized skin imperfections.

You'll never hear me chide a woman for the au naturel look on the weekends or after work (or on my friend E, who can truly pull off the just-woke-up look), but Monday through Friday, yeah, I think it's part and parcel of looking professional to even out your skintone and try to look as fresh and presentable as possible. Like I believe an ill-fitting or office-inappropriate ensemble detracts from your delivery in the board room, I also assert that an "I think I don't need makeup" face can be just as egregious - and just as avoidable - an offense.

So just as I advise you to engage in an honest self-evaluation of your body before you slip on that cute halter top ("Do I have the back for this?"), pair of short shorts ("Do I have the legs for this?") or strapless dress ("Do I have the shoulders and rack for this?"), I also encourage you to do the same with the reflection staring back at you in the mirror ("Do I have the kind of skin that doesn't need any help?").

Step-tug-tug-smooth

Just like when an Honors Geometry teachers gives partial credit to a student whose attempt at a tough proof - misguided and wrong as it may have been - exhibits intuitive, creative problem-solving skills, I too hold something back from my usually withering critiques when I see someone trying but ultimately failing to execute an intended "look."

Her dress was a black-eyelet cap-sleeved sheath with a scalloped boatneck and tiny leather waist-cinch that hit just below the knee.

Stunning, right?

Well, yes and no. The dress itself was flawless, and from the waist-cinch up, so was the drape. But while this thinkin'-she-looked-so-good brunette clearly had a puts-in-the-time-and-reaps-the-rewards size-4 figure, the extremely fitted bottom half (think pencil skirt skinny) was so painted over her hips-to-ass contour that with every step - literally, every step - she had to stop, tug at the left side of the hem, tug at the right side of the hem, smooth out the material and continue.

Graceful though her corrective movements were, between 17th and ConnAve on M St. alone, she must have gone through at least 15 step-tug-tug-smooth repetitions. Needless to say, she and her too-tight-edness did not go unnoticed.

Once she made it to the intersection, however, all judgmental looks dissipated -- standing still and at full, upright attention (she was about 5'11" with her 4-inch heels), this woman had discovered the absolute perfect wardrobe component to flatter her frame.

The seconds soon ticked down, the light turned red and the little white man ushered the cattle to cross. Almost immediately, even with that first push off the curb, there she went, each struggling strut distancing her further and further away from that statuesque static moment she'd just achieved opposite Burberry's god-awful Fall preview window displays.

And that was just the walk to work. Now I've got to take myself, my too-tight, purchased-in-an-impulse vintage dress ("it'll fit one day...") all the way to dinner with L and then another six blocks home.

I'm anticipating that translates to somewhere along the lines of 1,932 step-tug-tug-smooths.

Lessons for the day:
(1) Listen to your it-feels-kinda-tight instinct and return the dress to the hanger
(2) Follow my own GD advice

The girl whose 5 minutes Greenpeace doesn't want

Whether it's 10am, 12pm or a shade before happy hour, without fail, Greenpeace has a three-person presence five steps outside the glass doors of my office building.

These young idealists come in a melange of brochure-friendly makeup-spare faces bedecked in REI-inspired ensembles of a fitted company t-shirt, sturdy khaki short shorts, strappy athletic sandals and messenger bags emblazoned with whichever anarchist happened to be the most in-vogue at UVM when they graduated; they deliver their save-the-planet pitch with a righteous gusto that is alarmingly in-your-face but so undeniably sincere that if I weren't always in such a pinch to get to Cosi during the lunch rush or home by 6:30 to promptly walk the muffinloop, I'd probably allow them to suck me into at least listening to that familiar 10-word first question: "Excuse me, can I have 5 minutes of your time?"

Yesterday, at 5:45, I finally had my chance.

Having wrapped up at work a bit early and inspired by the sunshine to take my new mocha-hued Charles David Rosa peep toes for their inaugural strut up to Larry's for a small froyo with rainbow jimmies, I exited one set of heavy glass doors, then another, turned a hard left and headed out in my favorite DvF wrap dress toward the Greenpeace gauntlet awaiting me on the stretch of sidewalk just before the ConnAve/M St. intersection.

There they were, the three of them, all young women somewhere between the ages of 22 and 24, clipboards gripped in unmoisturized hands and bandannas tightly wrapped around half-ponytails, reeking - I imagined - of patchouli, organic fruit leathers and Michael Moore.

"Have at me, ladies," I thought to myself as I passed The Vitamin Shoppe, then Radio Shack, then Sun Trust Bank then...then nothing.

"Wait a minute," I said, whipping around to see how I could have made it from point A to point B without an accost. There they still were, standing in their same spots, not looking at me - at that time, the only person in their proximity - one picking at her cuticles, one smiling so hard I was afraid she might get a jaw cramp and the other, quite appropriately, eating a SoyJoy granola bar.

Huh?

Then it dawned on me, here I am always complaining and demeaning and unnecessarily mocking the clipboarders for their I'll-talk-to-anyone-about-my-cause-because-it's-just-that-important-to-me approach - because, I mean, come on, who really wants to talk to anyone? - but throughout my stereotyping and throughout all my bitching, not once, never on a single solitary occasion since they invaded my ConnAve/M St. perch two years ago, have any of them ever made an attempt to speak with me. And more often than not, like yesterday, they aren't even engaged when they ignore me.

"You're lucky, you know, that they don't harrass you," a fatherly gentleman in his early 50s said with a half-laugh, as he sided up next to me to wait for the light to change, "they always get me."

"Yeah...I suppose I'm not their target audience," I replied, doing my best to hold back my genuine I-thought-everyone-liked-me disappointment.

(sizing me up from my sideswept bangs to my default deadpan facial expression to my rack-showcasing dress to my black pedicured toes) "I'd say not," he said, this time with a full-bodied laugh.

Still slightly in a huff that anyone, especially an organization that expressly advocates on their website and in their literature the notion of making a difference through involving "as many ordinary people as possible," would deem me unworthy of a simple chat-up, I turned on the tip of my stiletto, put on Peaches at full-volume and turned my thoughts to "vanilla or swirl?".

Reason No. 1,209 why I'm not ready to have children

Unlike most women my age, I never had the pleasure of babysitting neighborhood kids to earn extra money. It's not that I declined offers (or an offer) but rather that young mothers looked at me and my neatly aligned Gene Hackman/Mandy Patinkin/Ralph Fiennes Trapper Keeper mosaic, heard the expletive-filled Above the Rim soundtrack blasting out of my chunky foam earphones and took note of the CD-sized "I'm a citizen for Court TV!" button pricked through the front pocket of my Mets-blue Jansport and just knew I wasn't someone to whom they felt immediately comfortable entrusting their children.

Compounding their reluctance was the fact that I didn't have any younger siblings or nearby younger cousins and thus had no firsthand experience wiping, changing, fixing, hushing, and all those other seemingly natural maternal reactions with which a proper babysitter should be equipped.

To my peers, those who spent their Saturday evenings clocking in at this house or that house for a night of child-friendly television and mac-n-cheese-n-Vienna-Sausages, I was the unlucky one, the one who didn't get to coo and frolic on all-fours until Mom and Dad returned from their neatly scheduled once-a-month trip to an upscale chain restaurant.

To me, I was spared.

Besides, Saturday night was for doing extra credit, watching NBC's 'Thrillogy' and scouring magazines for more brooding pictures of Gene Hackman, Mandy Patinkin and Ralph Fiennes to occupy the few bits of available real estate still left in my take-to-school masterpiece.

Now, at the tender age of 27, in large part because I've spent little if any time around those whose years number below my own, I find I'm just not the "Awwww, look at her/him" type when I see a Bugaboo pram coming at me with a nestled-in Juicy-Couture-clad toddler nursing a happy-colored sippy-cup. I certainly don't wince or cross the street when faced with these situations, but I do go out of my way to avoid receiving the mother-to-single-woman "you'll-be-here-one-day" half-smile, because I know how unnatural my "I-sure-will-be-and-I-can't-wait!" expression will look and how prematurely it'll tumble into ambivalence or in cases where EHF-level shrieking is involved, a physically-pained, wide-eyed grimace.

And now, with the back story firmly in place, enjoy reason no. 1,209 why I'm not ready to have children:

Time - 1:35pm

Location - the ladies room at Olive's (16th/K St.)

Characters - unsuspecting 9 year old, unsuspecting 9 year old's mother and myself

The Encounter:

(exiting the right hand stall, moving my way toward the left hand sink)

"Hello," a neither friendly nor unfriendly voice called out.

(looking around and finally seeing the outline of a smallish female frame standing between the left stall and the exit) "Oh, hello," I said, surprised to be addressed by one so young in such a power-lunch destination, "how are you?"

"I'm fine, how are you?" the young girl clad in light-wash denim shorts and a floral-trimmed 3/4-length sleeved t-shirt answered and asked in an up-and-down-up-and-down mechanical pitch similar to the way a language lab tape for newly-arrived immigrants might sound.

(wicking away the moisture from my handwashing) "I'm really good, actually -- the vegetarian panini was delicious."

"I got a hamburger."

(patting my hands dry) "Hmmm, next time, try the panini, you won't even notice you're eating vegetables. It's that good."

(silence)

"Lotion?" I asked, presenting her with my outstretched hand and in it my next-to-last bottle (probably ever) of Ho wood, lavender and Ylang Ylang infused Aromatherapy Associates moisturizer courtesy of the Mandarin Oriental Central Park South.

"Um, no. No, thank you."

"You really should."

"I...I don't know what..."

"It's best to start young with a lotion routine. Here's a simple rule my Mom taught me when I was even younger than you are now -- if you get your skin wet, pat it dry like this (patting my forearm with a paper towel) and then moisturize. Always. Whether you've just showered, gone swimming or..."

(the left hand stall's lock clinked open and a woman resembling my young conversant exited)

"What are you telling my daughter? To moisturize?" the woman asked in an unexpectedly bemused tone, her noticeably ruddy, hardworking hands finding their way to each respective hip.

"Uhhh...yeah, something like that. Sorry, I gotta go...my friend's waiting for me upstairs"

Note to self: preach the lotion gospel only to those without scaly-skinned chaperones.

Thaaaat's gonna leave a neck cramp

I've always been in favor of the Pam Grier-ified black afro. There's something very sexual, very primal about it; whenever I see a beautiful woman who's chosen to rock this 'do, even if she's casual as can be in a Summer maxi and wafer-thin flats or a straight-legged pair of jeans and a transition tee, I can't help but take a second look - gawk, really - and imagine what a confident little always-on-top hellcat she must be with the lights off.

Or, with the lights on.

But somewhere during my 42 minute flight between Traverse City and the Motor City last night, my love affair with the afro-puff took a sharp turn for the worse.

I didn't make a peep when I realized the massive orb I'd seen in the terminal atop a cute young thing's head was to flank me on the left and invade my personal space to the point where I had to arch my neck 70 degrees due right from taxi to takeoff to touchdown to avoid the nuisance of a constant cheek tickle.

I didn't exhibit a whit of impatience as I was forced to fold myself completely in half - nose-to-knees - to enjoy without hair-in-mouth incident the freshly-picked raspberries, Fig Newmans and Diet Vernor's 20 oz I'd packed myself for dinner.

But finally, finally I broke down and raised a minor protest when the young lady and her six-inch-radius hair-helmet settled into a position that got in the way of my being able to keep close watch on seat 2B in the First Class cabin.

Of course, I didn't come right out and say, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm really impressed with celebrities, even F-list ones like that guy up there - the portly one with the mussed red ponytail and the orange Crocs - and I really need an unobstructed view of the back of his head for the duration of this flight, so could you do whatever it is you need to do to tuck your hair in a bit?"

No, instead I decided to simply push her head-to-toe bedenimed body aside with a few swift elbow juts, exaggerated neck stretches and finally, a signature move I hadn't unsheathed since the days when my big brother and I rode the backseat of the family Volvo for our annual 25 hour pilgrimage to the lakehouse -- that's right, the *super* wide-legged Indian-sit.

In the end, I got my celebristalker view back, but after having paid $180 to count my pup as a carry-on and after having endured a flight-delaying lecture from flight attendants Julio and Evelyn concerning my airline-approved Sherpa (see below) not sliding "all the way" under the seat in front of me, I couldn't help but be a wee bit peeved this woman was permitted to bring that hair of hers aboard without having to fork over some sort of equally exorbitant head-room extension fee.

"People with fat asses have to do it," I thought to myself as I peered across the aisle at a woman plowing through a family-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos who'd comfortably poured herself (and the powdery dregs of her in-flight snack) into both the window and middle seats, "so why not people with fat-ass hair?"

Believe me, I'm squarely behind the notion of fashion over function, but in cases where a stylish choice, especially a permanent choice like hairstyle, consistently affects those around you in a negative way (thank GOD the two of us didn't meet one-in-front-of-the-other on opening night of the upcoming Clive Owen, Monica Bellucci firearm-filled release) you seriously need to rethink your game plan.

And you seriously need to buy two seats on an airplane.

White linen: good in theory, R-rated in practice

Note to all women with darker skin tones who brave the world of below-the-belt white linen -- buy a slip.

As the Sweetness and I came around the corner of ConnAve/K yesterday evening around 7:30, we noticed a pretty young thing in a pretty young Summer outfit. Petite, fit and tan, the sunglasses-bedecked Georgetown University student - believe me, once you've spent time on campus, you just know - complemented the humidity with a very weather appropriate ensemble of a coral-colored cap-sleeved boatneck tissue tee, metallic ballet flats, a worn caramel satchel over her left wrist, a crisp, well-fitted-at-the-ass, white linen skirt, and oh yeah, royal blue bikini briefs so visible even I, without glasses, could clearly identify where the cotton material met its silken piping.

You never know with a girl like this; this was, in my immediate opinion, an intentional act, an act of calculated entrapment meant to invite a confrontation in which she could justifiably accuse a man caught at the latter end of the implicit five-second am-I-really-seeing-what-I'm-seeing? stare-at-a-stranger window of being a pervert.

You know, like we all do with our university-emblazoned booty shorts?

Why am I so convinced this wasn't a typical DC fashion miscue?

If there's one thing I learned in my days up on College Hill and then again behind the gates of Georgetown, it's that girls with Tod's handbags and subtle diamond jewelery know every inch of their appearance before they leave their luxury apartments. Front, left-side, right-side, and most assuredly, back-side.

And to her credit, the plan worked. For the first time in recent memory, Monte's patrician good looks and self-important gait weren't the center of attention.

Chivalry or Lechery?

Time - just past 9am

Location - 17th and M, National Geographic side

Weather - 90 degrees/90% humidity

Characters - gentleman in his early-60s/myself

Costuming - his: Savile Row quality navy pinstripe suit, French cuffed, spread-collared light blue dress shirt, matte silk burgundy with gold and navy fleur-de-lis patterned tie, solid silk burgundy pocket square and seamless chestnut wingtips; mine: high-waisted black pencil skirt, wide black belt, tucked-in sleeveless silk-jersey v-neck shell with deep scoopneck back and gunmetal matte-satin peeptoes.

The Encounter:

(tap on the shoulder from behind)

(turning to my left and slipping off my headphones) "Yes?"

"Miss, you're perspiring."

"Excu...what?" I asked, genuinely unsure of what he had said due to the fact I still had my music - "Sweet Escape" by Gwen Stefani - at full-volume.

(pulling out his pocket square) "You're perspiring -- on your back, you're perspiring."

"Oh, I...I..."

Taking my half-bemused half-shocked open-mouthed expression as sure-go-ahead permission, the man, who looked like a cross between a character out of a Guy Richie film and JR from "Dallas," took his kerchief and proceeded to gently whisk away the beads of sweat off my exposed back and shoulders. There was no awkwardness or glint of I-know-I'm-crossing-the-line guilt in his blue-gray eyes. He wiped me down as if the gesture were as commonplace as a mother wiping dried ice cream crust of her child's chin. When he completed his task, he simply replaced the cloth to his suit, assured me the rest of me looked "just fine," nonchalantly crossed 17th St., turned left and entered AEI.

No creepy post-wipe sniff, no initiated flirtatious banter (the "fine" he used was clearly the ambivalent kind of "fine," not the you-lookin'-fine "fine") , no feeble attempt to exchange cards, no over-the-shoulder lookback -- no nothing.

And I just stood there, let an entirely new 24 second countdown expire, and wondered to myself if I'd just encountered the last truly chivalrous man in DC or perhaps the most lecherous.