THE 905
The 905: Invasion flies under snobby radar
February 5, 2010
Kim Izzo
SPECIAL TO THE STAR
One of the most enduring suburban myths is that you can't live in the 'burbs and be stylish. The adjective stylish just can't be juxtaposed with the noun suburban, especially one bearing the area code of the uncool: 905.
It seems our 416 counterparts don't take us seriously as men and women of taste. Many times, I have listened as slick urbanites roll their eyes and say they would never go to a Super Chic Downtown Restaurant on the weekend because it's too full of 905ers.
In other words, they go to great lengths to avoid us, even denying themselves the latest celebrity chef canapé.
As we know, Torontonians like to compare themselves to Manhattanites and have anointed the populace of the 905 as Toronto's version of Manhattan's "bridge-and-tunnel crowd."
The 905 is a land where women have big hair and fake tans and speak loudly while cracking gum. The men, well, they're just goons in souped-up cars. Why would any sophisticated person south of Bloor St. rub elbows with such unfashionable people? And certainly not on a Friday or Saturday night.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news but there's little point for downtown elitists to avoid trendy restaurants and bars only on weekends. Many 905ers work downtown and we get out during the week, too. That's right, we silently infiltrate the same so-hip-it-hurts hot spots on a Tuesday or Wednesday.
Like those neatly groomed Canadian newscasters on U.S. television with no discernable accent, you can't tell us from your own. Most 416ers probably don't know that the well-dressed couple at the next table at Cinq 01 actually live in a place like Richmond Hill or – dare I say it? – Mississauga.
All of this isn't to say that living life in the 905 doesn't come without complications. For one thing, you have to learn to pack.
When I have a cocktail affair or some other formal event after work, I have to bring the after-five outfit with me and apply evening makeup and change into my cocktail dress in my office. Living in the 905 can also throw a damper on spontaneous invites such as an impromptu night with my boyfriend (who lives downtown). My so-called walk of shame in the early morning hours now involves standing on Bloor St. waiting for shops to open so I can buy something new to wear, not wanting to show up to the office in my day-before outfit. Needless to say, my wardrobe benefits from this dilemma.
Still, the planning can be tedious. Remembering makeup and makeup remover, deciding what to wear that day, that evening and the morning after is sometimes just too much. Mistakes can happen.
On a recent occasion, I had worn a lightweight suit jacket to work when I was invited out for dinner unexpectedly. Out I went but it was one of those bitterly cold nights and there was only one coat in my car. It was a thick, square-shaped, beige-fleece, zip-up jacket. Despite all appearances to the contrary (see above), nothing screams 905 more than polar fleece in a downtown neighbourhood on a Friday night. But my need for warmth won out and I walked into the restaurant.
I expected people to stare or snicker. Instead, I was shown to a small wooden table, sans tablecloth, and waited. When my friend arrived, I found myself apologizing for the jacket, which I was still wearing as the restaurant, while super cool, was also super cold. My friend shrugged off my concerns. But I felt self-conscious.
I was about to remove the offending garment, fully prepared to freeze in the name of fashion, when the waitress brought us water and – perhaps owing to her shock at the fleece – she spilled much of it on our table. But there was nothing to wipe it up. She ran off in search of napkins or a towel.
That's where I came in. I realized I had on a jacket made from highly absorbent fabric. I swept my fleece-wearing arm across the table and mopped up the liquid.
"I'm wearing a giant table napkin," I said and we burst out laughing. Then I relaxed. No one had given my fleece a second look. See, we 905ers really are undetectable.
Kim Izzo is detailing her move from urban to suburban life. izzo905@gmail.com
Catch up on the series so far:
- Part One: Urban girl find home way north of Bloor
- Part Two: Come on up and see me sometime
- Part Three: The 'C' question has no good answer
- Part Four: My way is still the highway
- Part Five: This hostess taxis her guests too
- Check out the editor's blog on swapping rural life for city living
Toronto Star