Grave Apparel (64 page)

Don’t
Be
SAD:
Get
Help
for
Seasonal
Apparel
Disorder!

T
weed
on the beach? Flipflops in the snow?
You’ve
got Seasonal Apparel Disorder! Consult a
mirror.
Call your stylist. Get help
now.

Seasonal Apparel
Disorder,
also known as SAD, is caused by a clash of seasons, the real one outside and the imaginary
one
you’re
dressed
for
,
the
season
inside
your
head. Perhaps
it’s
already spring in your heart or summer in your sandals, but when the Beltway is coated in black ice and the forecast is freezing drizzle followed by more freezing drizzle with a good chance of freezing drizzle and you’re frozen to your flipflops, my diagnosis is SAD. SAD victims fill the streets of
Washington,
D.C. Recog nize them by their shivering state of denial, their touching belief that
it’s
still half past
summer
,
that fall will last for
ever
,
and winter will never come. Winter comes late to Our
Nation’
s
Capital, but come it does. SAD
sufferers
cling to their summer dresses and sandals. They eschew
stockings.
Their
winter
coats
are
in
storage
and
they’ve
lost
the
key.
They are dazed and confused and wondering
what
to
wear
,
and who can blame
them!
What are
the
rules?
There used to be rules, sensible, easytounderstand and
easytofollow
rules
such
as:
No
white
shoes
after
Labor
Day.
Believe me, frostbite is not fashionable, nor is heat
stroke
stylish,
but
both
threaten
the
cluelessly
clothed
when the weather starts to change.

Y
es,
it
is
dif
ficult
to
deal
with
unpredictable
transitional
weather
,
but
remember
,
it
doesn’
t
just
taunt
you
personally,
it

torments
all
of
us
indiscriminately.
When
the
seasons
shift,
it’s
cold
in
the
mor
ning
and
hot
in
the
after
noon.
It
freezes
when
they
predict
balmy;
it
monsoons
when
they
say
dry.
It
did
this
last
year
,
too,
remember?
Why?
It’
s
Washington,
people!

What’
s
the solution? Clothes. The right clothes. And a
few
simple
rules
and
some
basic
advice.
T
ake
responsibil
ity for your own wardrobe decisions. Catch a weather re
por
t.
Sure,
it’s
often
wrong
here.
But
if
torrential
downpours
are
predicted,
grab
the
umbrella,
ditch
the
sundress.
Don’
t
just assume the
Washington
weatherman is always wrong, simply because Congress is. (Congress is paid to
be
wrong.
Meteorologists
are
wrong
because
it’s
a sci ence.) Weathercasters give us secret clues, subtle
hints
like wind chill factors and humidity indexes. These clues can tip you o
f
f to wrap yourself up in wool and microfiber up to your eyebrows, or reach for the bikini and
sun
block.
Get
a
clue.
Here
are
a
few
more.

On
Wednesday
morning, with a chill in the air and winter
fast
approaching,
Lacey
could no longer
deny
her inner sweater girl. No, not thick
bulky
novelty
sweaters, not the dreaded Christ
mas
sweaters
that
had
inspired
the
fiasco
that
was
Sweatergate,
but
the soft
warm
sweaters of
winter.
There
would
be no Sea sonal Apparel Disorder for
her.

For
workdays Lacey liked silk, cotton, merino wool,
and
cashmere
sweaters.
Turtlenecks,
Vnecks,
pullons,
all
went
with suits for an
easy,
carefree style.
Lacey
selected a violet cashmere sweater to wear with a flared black
wool
crepe skirt and high heeled—though not
excessively
high—black leather boots. A black
wool
crepe coat with
velvet
collar completed the
outfit.
But the
Bentley
reception after
work,
where
nonprofit
types
would
hobnob with members of the
Bentley
Foundation
and vie for the inside track to foundation
money,
posed a trick ier problem. It
was
after all, sponsored by the
famous
fashion
design
firm.
She
couldn’t
go
looking
like
just
any reporter.
Lacey
did what
working
women
everywhere
do: She
packed
a change of clothes to
take
to the
office.

From the
famous
Aunt Mimi collection, she selected a vin
tage
fitted
blouse
in
heavy,
almost
crocheted,
creamy
white
lace. The top featured a soft
ruffle
down
the décolletage that
showed
off
her neck, a nippedin
waist
accented by a
burgundy
sash, and a graceful peplum that dipped
lower
in the back. A cultured pearl necklace and earrings, also from Aunt
Mimi’s
fa
mous
trunk,
would
complement
both
looks.
Although
she
would
be weighed
down
with the
extras
on her daily commute,
Lacey
thanked
her late greataunt.

The
outfits
would
be
fine,
but
the
shadows
under her
eyes

were not.
Lacey
had tossed and turned half the night,
worrying
by turns about
two
little girls lost in the District and
Vic’s
lovely
but
preposterous
Christmas
present.
After
one
glorious
test
drive
across the Potomac to
Shaw
and back, she left the beauti
ful
green
BMW
parked
in
his
folks’
garage
in
McLean
for
tem
porary
safekeeping.
She
was
tempted
but
conflicted, and after
all,
she
told
Vic,
it
wasn’t
Christmas
morning
yet.
He
just
smiled and told her to
take
her time, the BMW
wasn’t
going
anywhere
without
her.

Vic’s
surveillance
team reported no sightings of the girls in
Shaw
or
Farragut
Square.
They
came up empty on their
first
night on the job, and
they
asked
for more information, which
Lacey
couldn’t
supply.
They
were stalled.
Lacey
was
stalled. Christmas
was
stalled.
Everything
seemed to be stuck,
waiting
for the Santa Dude.

When
Lacey
strode through the lobby of
The
Eye
that morn ing a commotion was under
way.
She couldn’t
even
see
the
tastefully decorated Christmas tree for the uniformed D.C. cops tussling with a tall man in a
navy
blue dress coat. Mac
was
in the corner talking with
Detective
Charleston, the cop on Cas
sandra’s
case. A smuglooking Peter Johnson stood by them,
eavesdropping.