I enjoy fashion which will probably come as a surprise to anyone who saw me grocery shopping last week. As a rule I don’t pull out my je ne sais quoi with my reusable grocery bags; it’s either one or the other and that day I was honoring the earth and confused about whether I was awake or not.
Plus, I am less fashionable in the winter than I am in the summer, because I live in Chicago where you put on a coat on Halloween, sadly covering up your Cruella De’Ville costume and then take it off on Easter to show off your tribute-to-easter-eggs outfit and then immediately put your coat back on because you live in Chicago.
Usually by May, if we haven’t sinned as a large regional city, we begin to see a little sunlight. At this point, those under 18 start running around town in a bathing suit and it’s not because they want to show off their youthful bodies, no sir! It’s because it’s so hot, they can’s stand to wear anything even slightly defined as clothing. And, any way, they have all of their goose bumps to keep them warm adding “tsk,” as an expression of disdain.
As a grown woman, my reaction to a positive change in the weather is to where my denim jacket with a jaunty (the use of jaunty forever branding me as a person of advanced age,) scarf, or my cool blazer with a striped tea and flats, telling myself I look just like Gwyneth Paltrow, despite more than adequate evidence to the contrary.
But it’s February now and my fashion choices are limited if I don’t want to become frozen to the driveway while attempting to reach my car. Still, among a variety of reading materials, I read fashion magazines, studying the cool and laughing at the extremely cool, dreaming of a time when I can switch from a goose down coat to a leather coat with the lining zipped in.
The most hilarious of the current fashions, in my humble opinion, (another sign of advanced age, you cease to express other people’s opinion as your own, which usually makes you look more goofy than independent,) are the giant high heels. To me, they looked like the wearer escaped from someone who was trying to kill her by putting her feet into cement and tossing her in the river, (or lake if you live closer to the city) and in escaping, chipped of some, but not all, of her unfortunate encasements. Of course, that’s just me and it’s probably not what happened.
There are many styles which a person can only see at an awards program and are rarely worn to walk the dog or take out the garbage. These styles can be hilarious as well and a better person than me could probably make the red carpet fashion parade into a drinking game. Side boob! One shot! This will quickly result in alcohol poisoning, so don’t do this.
These gowns include and are not limited to: Dresses fashioned by the same designer which created the Emperor’s New Clothes, (Psst, you’re naked,) gowns which give the impression that the wearer ran from a burning building, leaving important parts of her outfit behind, (congratulations on doing so in those shoes,) and dresses which look as if you’re having your tailoring done by clowns in a hurry to get into a small car.
As I’ve mentioned in another post, where I am amused by these types, my mother is infuriated. I am surprised she doesn’t hyper ventilate after an evening of watching television what with her harrumphing and cross armed glaring disapproval.
I try to make her understand that her anger is eating a hole in her stomach, that will eventually result in her intestines making a (let’s face it, uninvited) guest appearance and almost certainly won’t halt the sale of mini skirts (Which she wore in the sixties and seventies.) But she insists on wasting her energy, shaking her tiny fist at the fashion world to no avail thus far.
Although I enjoy some of the fashions I see on TV and in magazines, I find their prices more of a challenge than a money for goods exchange. So, I haunt the discount world; consignment, TJ Maxx, on-line bargain sites, (which disappoint me 90% of the time. Apparently a fashion purchase is only satisfying to me when I can rub the fabric between my fingers.)
There are those who think that time is money and that buying what you want quickly and getting on with life is worth a 300% mark up. These people are called aliens. There are few things more satisfying than walking out of TJ Maxx with a bag of clothes you bought, not because you needed them, but because they were an enormous bargain and you can always sell them to a consignment store.
The downside to this constant surveillance is that, during the thrill of the hunt, I’ve been known to buy more than one of any given item over time, which is why I’m now the proud owner of four black blazers, an uncountable number of white t-shirts and two pairs of the exact same boots, which I unknowingly bought, most likely by pressing refresh, from an on-line store with a no return policy.
(It’s amazing what a mention of social media can do in these situations. Suddenly the company’s policy was more of a suggestion and I’ll be receiving a refund. Thanks Zulily!
Anyway, back to the subject which was…um…fashion! And how I enjoy it, which came to mind because the Grammy Awards are on tomorrow night. They are the mother lode of hilarity when it comes to haute couture, which I think means silly frocks.
The Grammy folks, however are trying to throw a bucket of cold water on an already sheer dress by asking the musicians to adhere to a dress code. The good news is that, by asking the performers to not dress like tramps of either the easy virtue kind or the hopping-on-a-freight-train variety, the musicians, who are mostly purveyors of rock-n-roll, will be sure to wear only the most modest of attire, because one thing you can say about rockers is that they are always ready to conform when asked nicely.
As for me, I’ll be wearing loose-fitting eggplant (a bold color choice,) sweat slacks and a over-sized, white hooded blouse with the words “look at the stars, look how they shine for you,” daringly emblazoned on the front, complimented with buttered pop corn on the neckline. As for shoes, my stylist has chosen black fleece slip-ons which have been transformed into mules by virtue of my not wanting to bend over to slip the back over my heel. I hope I don’t run into Joan Rivers.