“I can dress myself properly.” 

 Back in Mrs. Ridgeway’s kindergarten class at John F. Kennedy Elementary School in Wayne, New Jersey, I initially failed to make the grade.

N.  Needs improvement?

OK, in the era marked by unnatural fibers, leisure suits, and white vinyl shoes, was anyone really dressing properly? 

 Most of my life, I have been known for my sense of style.  I’ll admit to a detour during the preppy phase where I threw myself into add-a-beads, monogram sweaters, and those gender neutral Bass Weejuns/Topsiders/L.L. Bean Blucher moccasins much better suited to cute guys named Skip.

And ever so briefly when I emulated Madonna without the crucifix or Rosary beads.  Still, I added my own style.  I would pair a long Girbaud sweater vest with layered men’s patterned boxers or stirrup pants with a vintage dinner jacket or tux shirt. 

A short time later, I developed my authentic style which is sophisticated yet sexy Parisian/Eurostyle meets Audrey Hepburn.   Style vs. trend.  Heels or ballet flats.  Cigarette pants or a pencil skirt.  And of course, the Little Black Dress.

You’ll be glad to note, I closed out my stint in kindergarten with an S for Satisfactory which probably had more to do with my ability to buckle my shoes or button my jacket. 

 I like to think my penchant for red shoes added a whimsical touch to all my early elementary ensembles in which S should stand for Sartorial Splendor.