Theory

My niece just started her first job as an attorney. I am unreasonably proud of her. I have six nieces and nephews, which means I have a lot of opinions about a lot of people who did not ask for them. She knows who she is. For the purposes of this post — and all future posts, because I have a feeling she is going to come up again — I will call her E.

I should also mention that E has a mother. I will call her L. Unfortunately, I also have two other sisters whose names begin with L, which means I have an L1, an L2, and an L3. And because apparently no one in my family thought this was a problem, I also have two nieces named L, who will need their own numbering system entirely when the time comes. This is not my fault. This is my parents' fault — and in fairness to them, with three Ls in the house they probably stopped trying to remember who was who sometime around 1974. Which, now that I think about it, explains a few things.

Anyway. L called to ask me where her daughter should buy a suit for her first job as a lawyer. I said Theory. Only Theory. Start with Theory. L did not believe me. L, who has watched me navigate a thirty-year legal career, who called me specifically to ask this question, heard my answer and decided I was probably wrong. There followed a period of independent research. Consultation with other parties. A reconsideration of options.

I want to be clear about what this means. I bought Theory suits when I started practicing law. That was thirty years ago. Theory suits were the answer then. Theory suits are still the answer now. L called an expert, rejected the expert's advice, conducted her own investigation, and arrived at the expert's original answer. This is also, I have come to understand, simply what sisters do.

Here is what I find both hilarious and mildly offensive about this: we have had thirty years. Thirty years of women entering the workforce in serious numbers, ascending to serious positions, developing serious opinions about what they want to wear while doing serious things. And the collective answer remains: those pants, that blazer, that particular shade of off-white that photographs well in a headshot.

To be fair — Theory is good. It was good then, it is good now, there is a reason it has outlasted approximately four hundred trend cycles. A well-cut Theory blazer is a non-negotiable piece of adult life and I will not be arguing otherwise.

But here is what happened when you outgrew Theory's price point back then. There was exactly one answer. One brand standing at the top of that particular escalator, waiting for you with open arms and a very firm handshake.

St. John. St. John knit suits, in the colors of a Mediterranean cruise ship itinerary. Worn by every powerful woman in every wood-paneled conference room in America from approximately 1987 to 2004. Your boss wore St. John. Your boss's boss wore St. John. The woman who intimidated you most in every room you ever walked into was wearing St. John and a single important piece of jewelry and she absolutely knew something you didn't. It was the uniform. There was no alternative. You either wore St. John or you had not yet arrived.

I say this with genuine affection and also tremendous relief that we are no longer living in that world. Because we are not twenty-five anymore — and we are not limited anymore either. The options, it turns out, are considerably more interesting now than they were when we were collecting St. John in every colorway like it was a second retirement account.

If you are dressing for a room you intend to own:

But back to E. Here is what I actually tell her. What I tell all of them, every time.

A McQueen skull scarf and just a little too high Manolos will tell that room everything it needs to know about you before you have said a single word. That you know the rules. That you learned them on purpose. And that you are choosing, with full information and zero apology, to be exactly as interesting as you actually are.

They can have the Theory suit. Give them that.

Keep the rest for yourself.