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Good Intentions
Aug. 30th, 2004 10:19 pmSomeone needs to place a DNR on seventies fashions. They were a bad idea in the seventies, they were a bad idea the first time they were resuscitated somewhere around the mid-nineties, and they're a really bad idea now. If fashion movers and shakers are bound and determined to drag things back from the grave, the least they could do is hunt around for something that hasn't already been redone to death.
Either this summer is unnaturally hot, or I'm slowly replacing modesty with laziness. After fifteen years of boycotting anything shorter than ankle length skirts, I have finally given up and decided that comfort is more important than shielding the world from the blinding wubbly whiteness that is my legs. (my, that just sounds horribly grammatically incorrect.)
Of course, as soon as I decided to do this I realized that my knee-revealing wardrobe was limited to a rather ratty pair of cutoffs, some still-too-short-for-comfort khaki shorts, and two forlorn-looking hand-me-down minidresses that should have been retired with honors a few generations ago. So I decided to take the afternoon and go clothes-shopping, forgetting that doing so is almost always a painful and frustrating event.
I'm gradually weaning myself into summer clothes. I thought that being daring meant hemlines above the knee. Apparently, in between the ponchos and flared hiphugger jeans, the only skirts available tend towards hemlines that are arguably above the pantyline.
I meant to buy new clothes, honest and for true. I even meant to buy nice, I-respect-and-accept-my-budy clothes that fit. Instead I came home with a cookbook of tomato recipes and a teddy bear.
Oh, well.
Either this summer is unnaturally hot, or I'm slowly replacing modesty with laziness. After fifteen years of boycotting anything shorter than ankle length skirts, I have finally given up and decided that comfort is more important than shielding the world from the blinding wubbly whiteness that is my legs. (my, that just sounds horribly grammatically incorrect.)
Of course, as soon as I decided to do this I realized that my knee-revealing wardrobe was limited to a rather ratty pair of cutoffs, some still-too-short-for-comfort khaki shorts, and two forlorn-looking hand-me-down minidresses that should have been retired with honors a few generations ago. So I decided to take the afternoon and go clothes-shopping, forgetting that doing so is almost always a painful and frustrating event.
I'm gradually weaning myself into summer clothes. I thought that being daring meant hemlines above the knee. Apparently, in between the ponchos and flared hiphugger jeans, the only skirts available tend towards hemlines that are arguably above the pantyline.
I meant to buy new clothes, honest and for true. I even meant to buy nice, I-respect-and-accept-my-budy clothes that fit. Instead I came home with a cookbook of tomato recipes and a teddy bear.
Oh, well.
