Y2K
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1. Happy New Year, Y2K! The new century dawns with a resounding “phht”, and nary a meltdown of Armageddon-tastic proportions in sight. Whew! We sure dodged that bullet. Like many well-hyped, press-promulgated doomsday scenarios of the now-defunct 20th Century, Y2K was an empty suit wearing a hanging chad necktie.
9/11, of course, was another story. There was life before, and life after September 11, 2001—but the two were horses of very different colors. The naiveté that America was safe from terrorism—previous attacks notwithstanding—and the trust that our government was watchful enough, diligent enough, prescient enough to ward off such cunning and determined enemies on our own soil perished along with the innocent citizens, brave firefighters and police personnel whose lives abruptly ended on that ironically beautiful September day.
For many, myself included, who were in New York City on 9/11, the timeline of that morning forms an arc that is indelibly etched in the psyche and tattooed on the brain. Fashion forms a curious footnote. I will never forget what I was wearing when those planes struck: a vintage swing skirt, robin’s egg blue top and matching medium-heel, leather pumps; or the lessons I learned walking uptown 80 blocks in the company of shell-shocked, ash-dappled denizens of Wall Street, to the apartment of a dear friend, wondering if it was the end of the world, or whether the trains from Grand Central would be running in time for me to make it home that night: 1) Always keep a pair of comfortable shoes in your desk, and 2) Life is precious (not necessarily in that order).
Sex? I’m guessing there was a lot of it in the awful hours that ensued after the towers fell: fatalistic, zipless fucks to remind us that we were alive and lucky to be so; comfort and compassion in the face of despair; deep love reaffirmed by shows of grace and tender affection.
9/11, of course, was another story. There was life before, and life after September 11, 2001—but the two were horses of very different colors. The naiveté that America was safe from terrorism—previous attacks notwithstanding—and the trust that our government was watchful enough, diligent enough, prescient enough to ward off such cunning and determined enemies on our own soil perished along with the innocent citizens, brave firefighters and police personnel whose lives abruptly ended on that ironically beautiful September day.
For many, myself included, who were in New York City on 9/11, the timeline of that morning forms an arc that is indelibly etched in the psyche and tattooed on the brain. Fashion forms a curious footnote. I will never forget what I was wearing when those planes struck: a vintage swing skirt, robin’s egg blue top and matching medium-heel, leather pumps; or the lessons I learned walking uptown 80 blocks in the company of shell-shocked, ash-dappled denizens of Wall Street, to the apartment of a dear friend, wondering if it was the end of the world, or whether the trains from Grand Central would be running in time for me to make it home that night: 1) Always keep a pair of comfortable shoes in your desk, and 2) Life is precious (not necessarily in that order).
Sex? I’m guessing there was a lot of it in the awful hours that ensued after the towers fell: fatalistic, zipless fucks to remind us that we were alive and lucky to be so; comfort and compassion in the face of despair; deep love reaffirmed by shows of grace and tender affection.
silicone