|Epic or just scary?|
Since I am such a fashion icon among my peers (peers, stop laughing), I have been keeping an eye on some of the developments of the recent Fashion Week in New York as well as what's been happening on the run way.
I have learned, among other things, that lace is back (never knew it left), high-waisted pants for women will be popular again (I hear this was met with groans),the trench coat has been "reinvented" in dressy fabrics (the trench was actually developed by Burberry to wear in trenches during WWI)) and that "nearly every girl will spend her last spare hundred dollars on a pair of gorgeous shoes."
What woman doesn't love shoes? But, oddly, I can't seem to locate a "spare" hundred dollars.
And, despite my lingering status as a female, (strongly disputed by those who have heard me sneeze), if I could, it wouldn't go toward shoes. It would go toward flea medication for the cats---spring is coming and we can't go through what we did last year, now can we?
An article from the snotty Wall Street Journal (which recently referred to Baskin Robbins ice cream as "low end," can you believe it?) also said that certain colors should make us feel "lyrical."
After I mopped up the coffee that shot out of my nose upon reading that, I looked up "lyrical" just to reinforce my annoyance.
Lyrical, these days, is being defined as "having the fluid substance of music and possessing the character of a songlike outpouring of the poet's own thoughts and feelings, as distinguished from the epic or dramatic."
What if I prefer feeling "epic" to "lyrical." In fact, I assure you that epic would mean more to me at this point in my life.
Lyrical is for Taylor Swift. Epic is for women who wear metal bras in German operas. Not that I wear a metal bra---yet. But, at this point--I would rather intimidate you than enchant you. Is that wrong?
It was also suggested that we forget about "kitten heels" and just "accept that it's time to master the art" of walking in stilettos .
I have yet to, personally, find anyone who has truly mastered the art.
I could make more money than Michael Vick made with the dogs by pitting women against each other in stilettos. Wagers would be made on who could walk the farthest without turning an ankle, extra points offered--of course--for snapping a bone or knocking out one's teeth. I sense there's a lot of money to be made here and, quite frankly, am very excited at the prospect.
I read also that Yacht club chic is all the rage and it was suggested that it would be wonderful to appear as if we had just stepped off a yacht at all times.
My friends would drop a net over me if I tried this...and I'll return the favor if any one of them ever shows up with gold buttons on their shoulders and wearing a jaunty cap. Consider yourselves warned, Ladies.
I've been sick since Friday and have been modeling a rotating set of sweats in a grey that is neither lyrical or epic.
Wearing socks with grippy bottoms, I have still managed to turn my ankle and nearly plunge down the stairs, carrying hot tea and a toasted bialy, no less.
I have nothing in lace--unless you count that tattered tee I love to sleep in and if I have high-waisted anything it's because I kept a pair of jeans from the 70's to prove to total strangers (Hey, buddy, wanna see something unbelievable??) that this tuchas could once squeeze into something so small.
The idea of a satin trench coat is as preposterous to me as if Buzzy demanded a top hat....er, scratch that--Buzzy actually has demanded a top hat but you know what I mean.
Of course there are sour grapes on the menu as I sit here-- indulging in one of my favorite pastimes,reverse snobbery--in my mismatched regalia with tissues stuffed into my sleeves for future use. I look at the well-coordinated and trendy with admiration and am in awe of certain friends and relatives who take this stuff to heart and usually look great, as a result.
But Fashion Week is a figment for me...fun to read about but not nearly epic--or lyrical-- enough for most.