LOVE LOST & WHAT I WORE
An intimate collection of stories by
Nora Ephron and Delia Ephron,
uses clothing as a starting point for a journey through our personal lives.
Based on Ilene Beckerman’s book as well as recollections of the Ephrons’ friends, this is compelling theater, made more
compelling by the rotating cast of top drawer talents.
If you think this is just female fluff, think again. It is a real piece of
theater aimed for all theatergoers, regardless of their gender or fashion
sense. The authors have sneaked in a lot of poignant tales here, and the
emphasis is not really on the labels sewn into any garments’ lining, but the
memories (many humiliating) that outlast the wardrobe item.
Love, Loss, and What I Wore has been extended by popular demand at
New York’s Westside Theatre, was originally scheduled to run through December
13. It will now continue into 2010
My own wardrobe history triggered
the following memories (with apologies to Nora and Delia Ephron’s new hit)
Nora and Delia Ephron titled their
chronicles Love Lost & What I Wore. But this delightful evening goes
well beyond moments of heartbreak recalling other significant events and rites of passage on a journey
through personal lives enjoyed though the prism of nostalgia. It appeals
to women of many generations which the cast reflects as they morph into roles from a hyper-critical Mom (“You’re not
wearing that!) to perky cheerleaders, gals who wear
Birkenstocks, nervous brides, anorexic teens, and plump females who wish that
The Forgotten Woman (the store that met big middle-age demands) was still in
existence.
Inevitably
this will inspire memories of your own. Here are some of mine:
My earliest
clothes-related memory I do remember is howling angrily in my crib kicking
furiously to be released from the bunting they put young infants in –
years later at the age of 6 I was scolded for persisting in sticking my foot
outside the hot covers in the post op room for tonsillectomies.
Skip to the
white cotton pique dress we all had to make from a pattern for graduation from
8th grade. My mother, the daughter of a Polish Jewish tailor who
survived the pogroms by sewing the Cossack’s uniforms, never learned to sew and
neither did I. After continually redo-ing the seams my
mother had to take it to a dress maker at the last minute so I could walk down
the graduation aisle. I still
shudder at the memory of that dress.
The
social necessity of a bra occurred when nasty 12 year old boys would run their
index finger down your back to see if there was an impeding bra – this a double
source of embarrassment – if you had one, but worse the humiliation and
their sniggers if you didn’t – so my mom took me to the neighborhood
“ladies shop” (Purdy’s I still
remember the name) where I, red faced, was fitted for a “training bra”, a 32
double A.
I
borrowed my mother’s sheer white long sleeved blouse with the gold threads
running through it and the bowtie at neck to a spin-the-bottle party when the
boy who “got” me took me into the hall for the requisite kiss. I was repulsed
by the saliva dripping down his chin and his rapid breathing only to look down
and find his hand over my blouse resting
on top of my bra which I had
stuffed with rolled up nylons – the stuffing of choice because they were
soft – I didn’t feel a thing.
My first
period – I was 14 (by which time I had decided that I would never
menstruate and therefore could follow a career as a ballerina since I would
never have to worry about “staining”) and taking a ballet class in New York’s
Steinway Hall in my pale blue costume with its flouncy little skirt and
matching panties, when the Ballet Master, a small Russian man named Joseph Levinoff, who was adjusting an arm here a head there, scrutinizing
his young ballerinas at the barre. He was at my feet
to correct a ballet position and looked up at me with a quizzical expression I
could not interpret (I was always embarrassed anyway when he singled me out). In
the dressing room to my horror I had my very first period which had stained my
panties. It took weeks before I could look him in the eye without blushing.
The full skirted
puffed sleeve brightly striped taffeta dress I wore to my first New Years Eve
party in the “recreation room” (the basement of a friend’s apartment house,) Drinking
for the first time, Rum & Coke (an easy drink for beginners because all you
tasted was the coke) sitting on a folding chair on the side, I suddenly leaned
forward and vomited all over my party dress as well as that of my best friend sitting
next to me.
The black
taffeta skirt with the big bow in the back I wore on my first date to theJunior Prom at an elite boy’s school. I had somehow
spilled face powder down its back which marred my entrance with my mother franticly
rubbing it off with a dish towel and the excruciating Baby Jane pumps a size
too small to make my feet look like a Chinese girl’s, Crippled with pain I bravely
endured the dance at which he kept getting me punch (a substitute for
conversation) which worked because I could sit down waiting for it and also in
the ladies room to pee it away.
The
humiliating wedding seated a table of the bride’s friends, I was 15, they were
20, in a mauve silk shantung dress, the armpits of which darkened perceptively in
a nervous ring of sweat which grew throughout the evening so I couldn’t even leave
the table when everyone danced to keep my arms at my side (from that day hence
for 20 years I would do “the spit test” on every top I bought to see if it showed
perspiration). The gorgeous halter neck tulle formal in a waterfall of blue,
aqua, green and purple panels that everyone said made me, a redhead, look like
Maureen O’Hara at my Sweet Sixteen. I have pictures but unfortunately it was
before color prints were invented. My then best friend bought me a cigarette
case, even though I wasn’t supposed to smoke, and I felt very sophisticated; The
bland aqua and white organza overlay ankle length formal I wore at my high
school Graduation Prom under which I spent the evening with my knees bent
because my date, a compromise, was too short (later he shot up to 6’6”- there
is no justice); The gorgeous sheaths from a fancy ladies dress shop, Lillie
Rubin, in Brooklyn for my first 3 day cruise alone, each night totally
accessorized shoes, gloves, jewelry, purse and the appropriate undergarments:
high waisted panty girdle to meet of course the
padded bra, extending down to mid thigh which had to be meticulously attached
to stockings so there was no bulge. While exuding sex I was impenetrable and of
course all this was unnecessary because at 20 I had a perfect naturally bulge-less
body.
My first miniskirt at my first corporate job in an ad agency- one of
the few women at that time to rise above secretary (driven by the fact that I
never learned to type). I attended my first executive meeting in a chic hound’s-tooth checked
suit at which I insisted on standing because no one told me yet about panty
hose and the garters showed in any minuscule flex of the hips, and later
experienced the early pantyhose which bagged at the crotch forming a web between
my thighs.
My first realization
of sexuality in the workplace in a gray wool sheath dress with a tight skirt
and stiletto heels as I swiveled my way around the office (no other way to
walk) exciting the herd of men and unfortunately the boss who did periodically
call me into his office for the time honored chase around his desk –
blame it on the dress!
The basic
black wool I wore to the funerals of my parents and brother all within a few years
–
And the
most significant of all, the white dress I never wore as a bride………
Love, Loss, and What I Wore has been extended by popular demand
into 2010. It also opened to the largest box office advance in the colorful
history of The Westside Theatre, setting a house record. (
home to such long-running successes as The Vagina Monologues, and I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change.).
407 West
43rd Street. Tickets are $75 via Telecharge.com (212-239-6200)
Jeanne Lieberman is
the editor of Theaterscene.net
