fashion is all about eventually becoming naked (mmmm. now there’s a theory i can get behind)

I am obsessed (with many things, actually), but for the sake of sanity maintaining streamlined thought, let’s conquer the matter at hand: fashion.

But my second favorite f-word is an interpretive term, and, well, the way I do it, it may be less apt to be deemed fashion, and perhaps a bit more libel to be looked on as the ludicrous hybid of a storybook and the 1950’s if Marie Antoinette was playing the part of Rachel Zoe.

Which is exactly why I want to chronicle said insanity.

The fact that I feverishly follow (read: stalk) the style blogs of sylph-like young things and prodigal hipsters extraordinaire like the ubiquitous Jane Aldridge and the less known but no less intoxicating Lizzy Cherkasov may have aided in the crazy-making notion that I could follow in their orgasmically-heeled footsteps. And while I yearn to be capable of pulling off with aplomb their off-duty-model-esque uniform of equal parts irreverence and sex appeal, I was blessed with a body closer to Marilyn than Audrey and decidedly dress the part.

And while I have the body of a mid-century starlet, I possess a psyche more befitting  a character actor.

I play a new role everyday.

I play dress up everyday.

Only recently did I realize this wasn’t entirely normal.

But as I’ve never been normal, and this revelation of meager magnitude was not entirely epiphanic, rather an affirmation of my affinity for the offbeat.

Backstory: The love of my fourth grade life was a pair of patent-leather Airwalks, an affair I was mercilessly mocked for before being later vindicated by everyone’s adoption of the trend- a year later.

I’ve worn exactly what I wanted ever since.

My pursuit of my flights-of-fancy has not only provided me with hilarious photographic evidence of my various exploits (and hair colors), but also a feeling that can only be described as equal parts fuck-you and frustration. The fuck you being an empowering middle finger to the mainstream manifestation of samedom, the frustration stemming from the near impossibility of locating the objects of my desire before they become a frivolous fad teamed with the mind-blowing expense of things prior to sweat-shop mass production.

But before I come off as little more than a self-rightous bitch extolling my own fashion prowess, I must enter a premature postscript.

P.S. I’m not.

Not impossibly fashion forward.

Not impeccably stylish.

Not. Not.

But the one thing that perhaps sets me apart from my equally imaginative and shop obsessed peers?

I’m not afraid.

I don’t give a fuck if you think I look like a loon.

And that? Has made all the difference.

job of the day:  editor


~ by rubylocks on January 27, 2010.

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