Wearing cape is a feat of supermodel strength
by Beth Teitell

Wednesday, October 24, 2001

Once you reach a certain age, if you're smart, you learn and accept your sartorial limits. For some, sleeveless shirts are a mistake, for others, it's hip-huggers. In my case, it's capri pants.

And, it recently emerged, capes. But who knew?

To the extent that I'd even thought about capes in the past - before I began to covet one earlier this fall - I assumed they were the ultimate in forgiveness. A tight cashmere sweater cares if you put on even a single pound, but a cape? To my untrained eye, the cape appeared to say ``Have another brownie, or 10, what will it matter?''

In case you missed the news coming out of the fashion shows last spring, capes were all over the runways. Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. Everyone who was anyone was showing capes for fall.

``Capes, fur hats and over-the-knee boots are accent items that will separate the serious fashion devotee from the merely stylish,'' Time magazine wrote after the shows in Milan, Italy, and Paris.

Serious fashion devotee! That's going to be me, I thought. I'll be tall and thin and leggy and live in a Louisburg Square townhouse. My cheekbones will be high, my handbag important. I'll lunch with interesting people.

I'll be bookish and outdoorsy and commanding, and when I enter or leave a room people will know it.

If you don't know better, or don't really care about such things, it's easy to confuse the cape and the shawl. But the two could not be more different.

Little old ladies wear shawls. Crusaders wear capes. Batman, Superman, Batgirl, all your superheroes are cape people. Whereas a shawl requires its host to constantly attend to it, a cape allows - no, demands! - action.

Whether you're sucking blood, braving wolf-riddled terrain, or ringing a Salvation Army bell, the caped person is the busy person. A doer.

Unfortunately, or, I guess, fortunately, my profession does not require a cape. If you're the ``Caped Crusader'' you have to wear a cape, or at least have a pretty good doctor's note. I've never met a Caped Columnist.

And yet, I wanted one. Had to have one, in fact. At some point I began to feel that all that was separating me from the life I should be leading was a cape.

Well, let's just say I learned the hard way that not everyone can wear a cape. Not that a cape won't fit you, in the way some jeans, no matter what size you're willing to try, simply won't go on.

But like the word ``biweekly'' - is it twice a week, or once every two weeks? - a cape can go both ways. The slim look slimmer and the well, the rest of us look, you know.

Without getting too specific, let's just say my cape dreams died the other day, when after a few days of shopping alone for a cape, I tried one on in front of some ``friends.''

``Maybe you're too tall,'' one said.

Too tall????

``I thought we'd agreed you needed to be tall,'' I said. And besides, I'm not tall.

She reconsidered: ``Maybe you're too short.''