The Mezzo Stagione

We are now in what the Italians call the “mezzo stagione” the middle season, that period between the cold of winter and the heat of summer. In other words, spring. Yes, spring is lovely, warm weather and all, but it always throws me into a panic for the simple and yet very complicated reason: I don’t have any “spring” clothes. My wardrobe, perhaps reflecting my formative years in parts of the US where the spring is more of a theory rather than fact, goes directly from heavy wool jackets and leather boots into sandals and t-shirts, there is little, if any, in between. So suddenly to wake up and find warm gentle breezes and temperature highs in the mid-70s I feel like a girl on her first day at junior high school; whatever am I going to wear? Let me expose myself as the shallow and self-obsessed person that at I am and lay it all out.
Living in Italy has shown me that style is stamped into your DNA, that Italians, especially Italian women always know exactly how to dress, and are willing to look just right, even if it means living with Mom and Dad until your are 40, or doing one week in Sharm El Shek instead of two. Plus it is not just the sense of style, it’s the unwritten rules that say when it is OK to start wearing sandals instead of shoes, or skirts without tights underneath, rules that I missed. In the US, if it is hot in April, you dress like it is June because, well, it’s hot. Wearing a sweater isn’t going to trick the heat into going away. Instead here, as I have said before, going in sandals a month too soon reflects poor moral fiber and a lack of self respect, and everyone you meet will either ask you if you are cold or make some comment on the state of your bare feet, honestly, it is just better to sweat it out a bit and cover up. Obviously after having lived here for almost eight years certain rules of fashion have become clear to me: no white clunky running shoes, no sandals with socks (unless you are Miuccia Prada), t-shirts with stuff written on them should not be worn outside the house, unless you are running. Fleeces get the axe as well. You don’t borrow clothing from your husband’s closet and then head out the door. No khakis on women. In short, my rule is that if you look like you are going to be spending the day at the Cincinnati Zoo, you need to go back and change.
It’s a rule that seems to be easier said than done however, judging from past photos of myself. When the computer in our little study is idle for few minutes it switches over to iPhoto and random photos from the past 5 years come up on the screen. In one you see Livia stuffing her face with spaghetti, then in the next there is a photo of Giulio as a tiny baby, then the one after that a photo of me with my parents in Mantova 3 years ago. Looking at these photos can be wonderful, oh, was Giulio ever that small? Oh, wasn’t Sicily beautiful last year? Gosh that was a great trip to Augusta, Kentucky. But beyond realizing I looked about 12 when Giulio was born, I also realize how badly dressed I am once we get into the warmer months. I can do cold. A nice coat covers a multitude of sins, as well as a good pair of leather boots. But there have been a few photos that have made me turn to Lorenzo and ask, you let me go out like that? No, nothing shocking, at least no socks with sandals, just some linen pants and a striped t-shirt, but it doesn’t look elegant, sexy, or well put together, which is how I see most women around here dressed.
I look in store windows for inspiration and I see a two hundred euro crisp white jacket that would look fabulous, until I actually wore it and went somewhere with my children. Or 125 euro leather shoes that would be perfect for spring but would languish in my closet the second June rolled around. The other thing is that my personal comfort is waaay too important to me. I just can’t do heels unless I know I’m going to be mostly sitting down in them most of the time, yet when I walk around and I see women my age wearing them without a care, or a pain, in the world, I blame it on my lack of training when I was young. I should have worn heels from the age of 15 on, so that by now I would be able practically to run in them, yet another way that I don’t measure up to these Italian women.
But I see that Italian women, and men too for that matter, are bothered by this mezzo stagione as well. Yesterday was beautiful, almost hot in the sun, but with a breeze that you needed a sweater for. I wore a long sleeved shirt with a cotton sweater over it, my black work jeans, (i.e. meaning they are really too nice for a day out with the kids) and for comfort, cause we would be walking, a pair of black sneakers. I saw some people dressed lightly, and yet I saw other people bundled up in the warm sunshine wearing wool coats and hats. Babies bundled up like it was 30 degrees and not 75. The day before the kids and I had played outside in the yard without our coats, wearing just long sleeved shirts. Eugenio’s sister came over zipped up in a quilted jacket and immediately asked me if I thought the kids were dressed warmly enough. I told her I thought they were, but I could tell she was worried. Italians tend to freak about wind/breeze. Didn’t you know that a strong breeze can cause all kinds of stomach problems and illness?
Sunday in Italy is a family day. Do you remember last Sunday on Easter in the States most stores were closed and people were with their families? Well, imagine if every Sunday was Easter, meaning stores closed and families together, but the restaurants are open, just as they were on Easter. People here also tend to dress up on Sundays, even if they have nothing else planned but going out for a walk with their families, some perhaps more dressed up than they get any other day of the week.
Anyway, so we go to Salò, which if you can forget its dark Nazi past, which isn’t entirely its fault, you will love this beautiful little town on Lake Garda with all this Venetian architecture, and snow capped mountains high above the lake. It is gorgeous and was obviously full of other people walking around. We had ice creams and the kids are running around, and then Giulio is walking around groaning because he wants to be carried on Lorenzo’s shoulders and people are giving him concerned looks because it really does sound like he is seriously ill or something, but we won’t let him be carried, at least not yet. After all, this is the same child who walked all over Syracuse in Sicily for four days a year ago, with little to no carrying at all. Anyway, in moments like these what do I do? I check out what the other women are wearing, imagining what I would wear if I wasn’t pushing a stroller and trying to ignore Giulio who is staggering along behind me, and if I had a much bigger bank balance than the one I currently have. Most of the women seemed overdressed, in that they were wearing too many layers, boots over tights and gorgeous swaths of wool artistically wrapped around them. No one seems hot though. Some are wearing truly “spring-like” clothing, elegant white trousers, crisp white blouses, cool navy jackets, and loafers, with lots of gold jewelry all things I don’t own. The women’s hair looks good as well, on Saturdays many women go to the salon just to get their hair styled, something I might consider in my next life. Other mothers were wearing jeans like me, but with 4 INCH heels and not seeming to be in any discomfort, though they dispatched Daddy to retrieve the kids when they went running off. I instead had to do my own running. So many women were wearing lovely dresses that I felt like asking Lorenzo if there was a wedding going on, the whole thing made me feel rather inferior, and with the sun beating down on me, also rather hot and sweaty, and wondering what genetic material I am lacking to be unable to spend a day with my kids wearing high heels and without breaking out into a sweat? I glanced at Lorenzo walking beside me in his jeans and sneakers and decided that even if I wasn’t super elegant at least we matched, in mean, he wasn’t wearing a tie and oxfords, was he? It made me think of my new boss who bought his girlfriend a beautiful pair of stiletto sandals on-line and had her drive all the way from Milan to our company just to try them on to see if she liked them. She’s a girl who would wear heels with a toddler, no prob. And then I thought of Lorenzo who has spent the last month scouring Ebay for a new pair of running shoes for me, because he knows that I will need a new pair sooner or later, and thought that maybe I’m with the right guy after all. Someone who doesn’t mind me in sneakers or getting a little sweaty on a Sunday afternoon. My mission to be more elegant and my insecurities over how I dress won’t go away, but at least I know that they come from me and nowhere else, which means a lot. It’s one thing to wreak hell on your feet because you want to look good, been there, done that, and quite another when it is imposed on you from another person. And while the stilettos would be fun for the clubs that we never go to, when we got home I went for a five mile run and had a wonderful time getting sweaty in my running shoes.