Dressed to kill (yourself that is)

It’s hot. I know this because this afternoon when I brought laundry to the roof of my apartment building and clipped each item onto the line, upon reaching the end, the first two items were already, completely bone dry. I think it was 102 today. And to all you people whining about the heat in New York and Boston, we’ve haven’t exactly the AC coverage that you enjoy. Your woeful Facebook posts win you no pity from me.

Considering the heat, it does surprise me when I pass women in the street dressed head to toe. Now, I may have stated previously that the general dress of Tunisian women ranges from Lindsay Lohan to various manifestations of an Orko from He-Man look. I kid not, better still is the fact that Lindsay and Orko can often be seen walking together arm-in-arm. Daily there’s mom walking down street in a failed-attempt-at-stylish leopard print dress that covers neck to ankle, holding daughter’s hand who is wearing skinny jeans and a Zara t-shirt that could only have been painted on. Mom and daughter are giggling and find their outfits totally unremarkable.

I concede that wearing shorts and a tank top really isn’t the smartest option with this blazing sun. There are plenty of examples of so-dressed, idiot tourists who come to Tunisia for a beach holiday, throw caution to the wind leaving the sunscreen at home, and therefore spend the final days of their trip idling in Tunis’s souks with exposed shoulders all a-blister. Ick. Even if the sun does not burn you to a lovely shade of lobster, it will beat down on your poor little epidermis, so it actually feels nicer to wear nice light, loose-fitting cotton. This I learned in Niger, where it was actually hot (140 degrees often and I actually saw it hit 155). Women and men wear the same clothing-concept: huge pieces of thin, thin cotton, draped loosely, and only once, about you to let optimal air flow and prevent sun from crisping your skin. No insane layers, no exposed skin. They are geniuses; this is what one wears in oppressive heat.

As the temperatures climb in Tunis women respond by removing their winter coats, or maybe they wear a shrug over a long-sleeved shirt, but it’s the men who look really ridiculous. Every day I see men in their 40s and 50s walking around in athletic shorts (thigh high ones!), tank tops, and flimsy plastic flip-flops. I think they believe that this constitutes being dressed. One could wash a car, sit on lawn furniture a la "Dad on Father’s Day" card, or God forbid, work out in such attire. It is beyond me how anyone could find it acceptable to walk into a bank, eat in a restaurant, or sit in your dentist’s office so dressed. Unless you are seven. The rest of you are simply flaunting the fact that it’s socially acceptable for men to look stupid.

Of the many couples sporting a look that says “Orko is escorted by Larry Bird circa 1983,” I saw my favorite today. This afternoon I passed a couple walking hand-in-hand down Rue de Marseille, being flirty. She was wearing a light turquoise, sparkly head scarf, one of the tight ones that covers the neck up to the chin, then she had on the ubiquitous white long sleeve t-shirt under a long, to the ankle sun dress (turquoise, hot pink and white): very Muslim chic. He was wearing basketball warm-up pants, the kind that swish when you walk like the pants are trying to get you to “be the net, feel the net.” He pairs these dashing pants with a tight, white tank top, which nicely highlights his skinny frame, and is cut so as to reveal both, both his nipples. We can’t see her neck, but we can see the gentleman’s nipples. Lovely.

However, in a rare moment of magnanimity on my part, I immediately recalled a couple I saw this January in Boston. It was a dark and snowy evening, a balmy 17 degrees, as I passed Gypsy Bar and noticed a couple waiting in line. She was wearing a black mini-skirt, and had really long, gorgeous, very naked legs. Her naturally long legs clearly were lacking 3 inches, so she was perched on pencil-thin silver heels. The top was sparkly and nicely displayed unnaturally high breasts, likely due to some really expensive gravity-defying bra. She had a coat on, but obviously it being well above zero degrees she needed to have it unbuttoned. He was in the every-man going out in Boston look: completely average-looking but probably really expensive jeans and some Brooks Brothers type button down shirt. As I pass them, my ankles tighten, they look up at me pleadingly, “Oh please don’t ever do that to us in this snow! “Oh darlings, you know mommy loves you too much! You keep running nicely and I’ll keep wearing comfortable shoes that make me look ten years older than I am.” Two little ankle voices squeal “yeah.”

So who is the more ridiculous couple? Mr. and Ms. Tunis, enjoying a stroll in the 101 heat while she sports 25 pounds of clothes and his nipples enjoy the breeze? Or Mr. and Ms. Boston-Clubbers, waiting in line as she is about to loose those nice legs to frostbite?

I will award each couple an honorable mention for adhering to the globally accepted rule that she must outdress him by a ratio of 6:1. However they both lose. Rather the men win because despite looking lame, they are dressed for the damn weather they are standing in. And the women lose because they are idiots. Blah, blah, I know: both women are responding to male-dominated social definitions of female beauty and control and manipulation of such beauty. In one context male pride depends on other men seeing his girlfriend’s long, sexy legs, thereby earning him “man-points” for how jealous other men are of him. While Mr. Nipple earns his man-points by showing off the prettily wrapped present parading down the street with him, and other men get to be jealous that only he gets to unwrap said present. (Although this couple could not have been over 23, and there’s no way a guy dressed like that has the money to get married in Tunisia, which really leaves him with only one package to play with).

Forget these tools, I blame the women. Lick your finger, hold it up in the air and guess what the temperature might be. Then try, try to think of what would make you not miserable in such weather. Ladies, all of you, can we please dress for ourselves? Can we consider the raging monsoon outdoors, the hazards of skin cancer, or the health and longevity of our ankles? Or can we at least, as Van Morrison chides, dress up for each other?