I was really inspired by photos of the "Forgotten Man" during the Depression, when men were wearing the last suit that they had at the time, just trying not to starve to death. It's the kind of suit that is worn in the rain and shrinks on the body and becomes a second skin, which is different than someone who willfully dropped out.
I'm known for wearing tweed jackets, khaki pants and suede shoes. I've only worn a suit in parliament under duress, when I was on the front bench.
As far as comfort and convenience, men have it all over the girls. A man can wear the same suit every day of the week with different shirts and ties, but a woman needs an extensive wardrobe. I can understand how women on the go wear pantsuits and slacks.
An adventure may be worn as a muddy spot or it may be worn as a proud insignia. It is the woman wearing it who makes it the one thing or the other.
You would never see anyone go to a restaurant in Milan wearing a jumpsuit!
Wearing the sari, adhering to the parda system and all those things are really taxing. After wearing a woman's attire, I came to understand what they go through daily.
I have one brand I go to, and it's Suit Supply, and it's fantastic. I was spending $3,500-$4000 on a suit, and the suit I'm wearing today was $500. And they last you forever. The shoulders are set in by hand, it's phenomenal.
Do I think men are complicated? People are complicated! I don't know that there is one particular aspect of men in general that I don't understand - other than why do they have nipples? I thought we decided that men are just big, hairy apes.
Only when a woman shares male risks can she really begin to understand men.
I am not a big skier, but I love apres-ski wear and imagine I would look great in an all-white, fur-trimmed ski suit.
She was standing in the airport of Copenhagen, staring at a doorway, trying to figure out if it was (a) a bathroom and (b) what kind of bathroom it was. The door merely said H. Was she an H? Was H "hers"? It could just as easily be "his". Or "Helicopter Room: Not a Bathroom at All
In 2012, I was invited to a ski event called the Hartford Ski Spectacular to learn how to sit-ski for the first time. I loved it, but it was not pretty - I was not good. I didn't know how to stop, so I kept throwing myself on the ground.
And yet she could not forgive herself. Even as an adult, she wished only that she could go back and change things: the ungainly things she’d worn, the insecurity she’d felt, all the innocent mistakes she made.
I had to think about ankle torsion, where the screws are on the ski, how that affects the forces going into the ski and how the ski bends, your leverage points. It was a challenge. I was having the greatest time, making the mistakes, crashing.
I couldn't understand her [my mother's] wiring, all the time. I couldn't understand how she denied herself pleasure and enjoyment in life. As my career got successful and I wanted to do things for her, she wasn't able to allow them because she just didn't work that way. It was always that. It wasn't necessarily ugly, just complicated.
The mother must teach her son how to respect and follow the rules. She must teach him how to compete successfully with the other boys. And she must teach him how to find a woman to take care of him and finish the job she began of training him how to live in a family. But no matter how good a job a woman does in teaching a boy how to be a man, he knows that she is not the real thing, and so he tends to exaggerate the differences between men and women that she embodies.