A Hot Mess Runs Her Errands

IMG_3411You know the saying, “always dress like you’re about to see your worst enemy”? Well, as a lady in her 30s who loathes running errands, I subscribe to the saying, “dress like you give zero fucks because you want to get this shit done as quickly as possible.”

If my enemies saw me in “running errands” mode, they would do a victory lap. Stores are hot. Most people are rude, especially in the grocery store. Henceforth, most of the time, I don’t put in a lot of effort. Want to grab drinks? I’ll look like a million bucks… well… maybe like $100,000. Need shit to make dinner? I may look a little rough.

Quite frankly, I’m not sure when I stopped caring about what I looked like whilst running errands. Because I remember as a teenager, I wouldn’t even go get the mail without a full outfit and face of makeup on, because GOD forbid my crush would bike past my house or something.

So let me paint you an unfortunate picture:

  • No shower (calm down, I usually shower later)
  • No makeup (I really only check to make sure I don’t have black smeared all underneath my eyes)
  • Rosacea at full glow
  • Hair either under a hat, barely brushed, or up in a messy bun (and I’m not one of those girls who can do an effortlessly chic messy bun, I usually try and then have strands of hair poking out every which way)
  • Leggings, because the idea of real pants exhausts me when I’m just trying to get out the door
  • A random top – like for example I threw on a fleece the other day, realized it was inside out, and did not amend the issue (photo evidence above… it was too good not to photograph)
  • No bra
  • Converse sneakers
  • Sunglasses

I feel very blessed it’s wintertime… well, YOU should feel very blessed it’s wintertime, because a chic coat is the best distraction from a hot mess look. A winter hat, cute coat, and sunglasses? You think I look so stylish with a side of rosacea, right? Well, it’s because the sweatshirt I’m wearing, which happens to have Diet Coke stains on it, topped with a thick layer of dog fur, with my taas fully unsupported, is hidden from your eye balls.

I think I trick myself into believing it’s okay leaving the house looking somewhat homeless by pretending I’m just like a celebrity, dressed all comfy without makeup on, trying not to be noticed by my swarm of fans at the airport. Welp, I’m the farthest thing from a celebrity. And I don’t see what would stop Carol from 10th grade chemistry class, who sees me in Wegmans for the first time after 15 years, from coming over and painfully reuniting.

So I raise my glass to you ladies in your Lululemons, looking all put together and fabulous while I creep past you in the produce section looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame who escaped from her bed and binge watch. Especially the ones with kids. How the fuck do you care for children AND manage to make yourself look flawless out in public? I mean, serious props to those ladies.

I don’t think we always need to be put together. Mostly because it’s EXHAUSTING. Why do I need to shower, curl my hair, style a cute outfit, and put on a full face of makeup when I just need God damn chicken breasts? It’s one thing if it makes you feel good to do so, it’s another when you’re doing it to please others. I don’t care who judges me, I don’t get glam for the grocery store. I suppose this is one of those rare and mystical things about getting older.

For the ones who are like me, who give zero fucks about what they look like whilst running necessary errands, I would say high five me or something if you see me out, but let’s be real, neither or us want to make eye contact with anyone, so a silent salute will have to do.

Let’s Try This Again…

cropped-kate1v4-2.jpgI really didn’t want to write a “LIFE SUCKS IN A STRAPLESS BRA IS BACK, BABY,” post because I’ve written and posted this oh so many times, even I’m like, “seriously… AGAIN?! See you in a year, bitch :::eye roll:::.” I write a post. I’m like, “that should suffice for a bit.” Then a year goes by without one word written. Why? I mean no one wants to hear my bullshit excuses.

So why am I giving this a shot again? Because resolutions… DUH. No, truthfully I think resolutions are actual nonsense. No one cares that you’re doing “dry January,” Carol.

Everything in moderation, people. But I digress.

In all seriousness, when I don’t write, when I don’t have that outlet, I don’t feel like myself. And this little blog is apart of me now. It has been since I birthed it in 2011 (holy SHIT that was a long time ago… and yet I haven’t aged a day :::hair flip:::). And I happen to believe it’s incredibly important to focus and nourish the things and people who bring joy to your life. So I’m blowing off the dust, and nurturing my craft once again. Honestly, it makes my heart so happy.

It’s like a friendship that fizzled out, and you see something on Facebook Memories that reminds you, “you know what, that bitch was FUN… I should reach out.”

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m firing up the ol’ blogging machine, and giving this a whirl once again.

For now, I’m just REALLY looking forward to chatting with you about real life things like trying to put on a body suit whilst incredibly intoxicated. And having no shame about talking to anyone and everyone about your ovaries. Just a little taste of all things to come.

So follow along. Keep me honest. Write me really sincere comments like, “So you’re not comfortable with your giggly bits? Then hit the fucking gym, fat cunt,” (which was an actual comment I once received and it destroyed me/made my day… so thank you, Taylor, whomever/wherever you are).

But no… be kind, for real. I’m fragile.

 

 

 

 

 

I Learned To Ride A Bike At 31

Up until, oh I don’t know, August of 2018, I didn’t know how to ride a bike. Stop. Seriously stop reading. Let that sink in for a minute. I’ll give you a minute to regroup…

No, my parents were not neglectful jerks. They taught me. With a cute pink bike with glittery tassels on the handle bars and an adorable white whicker basket with plastic purple and pink flowers on the front.

I have such fond memories of them holding on to me, saying, “you got this, sweetie,” and riding up and down my block until the sun was setting, trying desperately to master the skill. But, my good ol’ social anxiety set in at age 7 and I was all, “I’m going to go inside and write and color forever,” and I never flung my leg over a bike again.

Until at the not so sweet age of 31 when I started to date a guy who lived and breathed for bike riding. He literally said, “bike riding is really important to me, Kate.” And I internally whispered to myself, “fuck.”

I bet you’re wondering how I got away with not riding a bike between the ages of 7 and 31? Yeah. Me too. I guess it was a lot of, “oh guys, I’ll meet you there” or “shoot, I’m in heels.” But you know, I don’t really remember being hassled much, so thanks, friends and family!

Let me tell you, it wasn’t embarrassing AT ALL telling him I couldn’t ride a bike (it was one of my finer mortifying moments in my life). Spoiler alert: he didn’t break up with me, so that was cool. He also didn’t believe me, because, “:::stupid man voice::: it’s just like riding a bike.” Right.

So, in the heat of summer, down the shore, in shorts and flip flops (because I also barely own sneakers… that’s a different story), I walked to a “quiet” part of the street so I could prove to my boyfriend the saying, “it’s just like riding a bike,” it complete and utter hogwash.

I flung my leg over the thing and immediately felt this surge of, “okay… okay… I got this.” But this “quiet” area he found for me to learn was in between two motels. And all of a sudden I felt like a sideshow act. Like the vacationers weren’t there to sit poolside and relax, but came for the week to witness an actual adult woman not know how to maneuver a bike.

The lesson ended with me not remembering how to break, internally freaking out that I was going to break my face, quickly flinging my foot down while I was still in motion, and horribly stubbing my toe. To which I hopped off the bike and said calmly (no I wasn’t), “I’m done. That’s it for today. I’m not giving up. But today I’m done. I’ll try again later (no I wasn’t).”

I had done the impossible. I proved to my patient and encouraging boyfriend that a person could, indeed, forget how to ride a bike. Tai from Clueless was right, except I wasn’t a virgin who couldn’t drive, I was a loser who couldn’t ride a bike. Way harsh, Tai, but accurate.

His words, “bike riding is really important to me, Kate” kept playing over and over in my head as I took my walk of shame and defeat. As a gaggle of kids rode by on bikes, I screamed, “Ohh yeah just ride along like it’s nothing. You think it’s SO easy. SOOOO easy,” a la Carrie Bradshaw when a guy bumped in to her on the street after her boyfriend broke up with her on a Post It.

We didn’t broach the topic again until we went on vacation together with my family. He went to go rent a surf board and a stand up paddle board (as one does), but also “surprised” me with a bike. “Hey, it’s here if you want to give it a try again.” (Nope)

But one morning, I gave the lesson another go (I must have had my vacation ritual of champagne before 10am). I got on, and with his words of encouragement, “keep peddling, don’t stop, you got this, just keep peddling,” I took tiny little baby steps to successfully riding without falling or stubbing my toe. In fact, I went around the block, a thank you :::hair flip:::.

I immediately ran into the house and was all, “MOM, MOM, did you see me?! I rode a bike without dying!” To which she responded unenthusiastically, “Kate, you’re 31.” 

For the rest of vacation, I was the one asking my boyfriend to go on bike rides… simply so I could scream at gaggles of kids riding, “HEY! LOOK AT ME! I’M DOING IT, TOO! YEAH. SUCK IT.” 

What can I say, my story is a lot like Oprah’s. Her talk show first went national when she was 32. I learned how to ride a bike when I was 31. I’ll be launching my own TV network shortly. Stay tuned…

 

Life Still Sucks In A Strapless Bra

I haven’t written for a year. An entire year. 

As I wipe off the figurative dust from Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra, I can’t help but think about who I was when I put the pen down on this day last year. I was depressed. Heartbroken. Pissed off. I had lost my way. Lost my voice. Lost what I loved most about this blog, which was coming to an empty space in the interweb and filing it with funny, interesting nonsense that I pulled from my brain that seemed to entertain people. 

That’s why I walked away. Kate needed to get her words back. I mean my last post one year ago today ended with, “Al Gore rules. PEACE.” Uhhh. Yeah. Baby girl needed a time out. 

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Fashion Week: Is It A Bad Joke At A Funeral?

PREFACE: It’s been a while since I hit submit on a post. I don’t have an excuse. I’m not going to be all, “uhh writer’s block, and I suck… and Trump’s a dick hole so it’s HIS fault :::shakes fist:::… THAT’S why I haven’t written.” I mean all of those things are true AND valid, but alas I’m not going to do that. Now that we’ve covered that…

As I sit here on my couch, binge watching coverage of Hurricane Irma and stuffing my face with caramel and milk chocolate covered pretzels (yeah… they are tiny slices of heaven), I can’t help but have this super eery feeling like it’s the end of times. DACA, hurricanes destroying the country, everyone suddenly feeling like it’s 100% okay to be a full blown racist again, and the fact that Hillary Clinton is STILL not our President. I mean fuck us… right?

And now it’s fashion week. Usually I’m all about it. I stalk Twitter, I watch the live shows on my phone, and I’m pretty sure I’m the last standing Tidal member, because I originally downloaded the app to watch the Yeezy fashion shows and never really deleted it, so you’re welcome Jay z and Kanye West, you’re welcome. Enjoy my $9.99 a month.

Obsessed would be an understatement when it came to fashion week. It gave me joy and a sense of peace in the vainest way possible. I would sit there watching these beautiful fashions, dreaming of the day I would get to watch the shows live, and everything felt better.

But fashion week this year feels… trivial. And let me be very clear that it makes me want to vomit that I actually typed out that sentence. It just feels really fucked up for me to go on Twitter right now and tweet, “I would sell my mother’s soul for that Marc Jacob’s jacket #NYFW,” like I normally would, when Florida is about to get Day After Tomorrow-ed. I can really only compare it to loudly saying something inappropriate at a funeral.

I’m seeing these fantastic fashion folk I follow on Instagram showing how busy they are and how they plan to survive fashion week, and while I normally would be thinking, “you lucky bitch, I want your life… where did I go wrong?,” I’m kind of just like… “uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh ssstttttttttoooppp.” Like I want to watch their fabulous stories of running from show to show with envy, but I’m watching between two fingers as I cringe.

I get it. It’s fashion week. It’s an institution and these very talented people worked tirelessly to put on these shows. They didn’t know Donald Trump would actually get elected, then would decide climate change wasn’t a thing, and then weirdly have 45 hurricanes destroy numerous cities in the US. I mean HOW could they know that?

We shouldn’t have to sit shiva just because the world is crumbling around us. But I needed the world to know I feel very uncomfortable oogling over the fashions this year. If you see me tweet anything about fashion week, in my brain I will be doing so, peering around an imaginary corner with binoculars, quietly whispering to myself, “Alexander Wang is a genius. Satan, here is my mother’s soul, now give me the entire collection.” Oh yeah… “#NYFW.” As I try to quietly crunch on my popcorn, trying not to make a sound. That’s how I will be tweeting, if I even decide to. Which again I probably won’t, because, like I said, I’m SUPER uncomfortable. Am I the only one?

Now that’s off my chest, I’m sincerely sending my love to everyone suffering in any way. Stay strong, kids.

Al Gore rules. PEACE. 

If Rihanna Is Fat, Then I’m The Michelin Man

90163d30bf65082a6033bad7fa6a6697We, as a society, have a problem. Actually no. Let me rephrase that. We, as a society, have MANY problems. 

Donald Trump is our “President,” the US is pretty much a stone’s throw away from becoming the Handmaid’s Tale, and oh yeah, people think Rihanna is fat?! Is anyone else pinching themselves like, “WAKE UP, self, WAKE UP, this shit can’t be real! Make it stop. I want to be a baby again!” (No? Just me?)

First of all, Barstool Sports, on behalf of ALL women, go fuck yourself. 

Second of all, didn’t your mama teach you to NEVER comment on a woman’s weight… that is unless you want to get smacked.

Because shit happens. Sometimes you get depressed and you gain weight. Sometimes you’re on medicine that makes you gain weight. Sometimes when your uterine lining sheds and you bleed from your vagina for a couple of days… guess what? You gain weight. 

tina-fey-macncheese

And then there’s this mystical thing called, “living life.” It’s this crazy world where women get to kick back, relax, and not spend every waking minute counting calories or having a trainer bark instructions at you. Where you aren’t expected to have 6-pack abs and walk around in bandage dresses with insane five inch stilettos to “elongate our legs.” Vomit.

You just say, self, stop giving a fuck for one minute, and enjoy life. Show off your new curves. Have the second piece of cake. Indulge in your cravings. Don’t cringe at the thought of having to go to the gym after work. Just don’t go. Shh, I won’t tell anyone.

quit

Aren’t we allowed to do that without some jackhole commenting that, “ooohhh someone has been hittin’ the room service a bit too hard.” 

Because as someone who has gained a bit of weight over the past few months, if these idiots think Rihanna is fat, then God damn, send me off to the bell tower, because clearly it’s not appropriate for society, especially males, to see me at such a size… GASP.

anigif_sub-buzz-7963-1496333352-1

To answer your question, Barstool Sports, being “fat” will never be a trend. In fact, the word itself, in my opinion, should be banned because it is cruel and hurtful, much like your post about a woman you only know through your earbuds and shit you read on TMZ.

At the end of the day you have zero idea of what is going on in someone’s head or heart, or what is going on with someone’s health. 

So tell me. Why comment on shit you know zero about? 

Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra OUT.

Also, Rihanna, you’re beautiful. But you don’t need my ass to tell you that. #Queen

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Do You Know What Avant Garde Means?

iewpflsdMerriam Websters dictionary defines “avant garde” as: a group of people who develop new and often very surprising ideas in art, literature, etc. A la Rei Kawakubo of Commes des Garcon. 

Now after that definition, think of the Met Gala red carpet last night. Yeah. Shiny, backless dresses don’t constitute as avant garde, people, but nice try. Nor does having your bits and pieces out for everyone to see, Kendall Jenner… yeah… I’m looking at you. 

The Met Gala is my “big game” of the season. I live for it. But unfortunately this year fell flat. Until Rhianna showed up and picked up the pieces of my broken heart by defining and schooling people in avant garde. Thank Jesus. 

What I wouldn’t give to be invited to an avant garde event. You can really go balls to the wall with your outfit without a care in the world. Hell, I was half tempted to rock a bird cage on my head to work today just to make a statement about how boring the fashion was at the Met Gala … but alas, my bird cage was too heavy. 

So when you are presented with an invitation honoring a tastemaker in the avant garde world, why the fuck would you show up in a curve hugging, boring, ball gown? Do tell, stylists… I’ll wait. 

Ahh well. What can you do. Although it made it crazy easy to pick out my winners for best dressed. Because obviously everyone in Philly is waiting patiently for my picks (am I right)

Well here it is, my avant garde winners of the night. AKA people who didn’t bore me to death and took a fucking risk. Enjoy. 

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AND THE QUEEN…

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Things That Make Me Stabby

e27063982844ada2fc69d512b4c4668eA lot of people wonder why the knife emoji is always in my emoji top 8. In fact, I get a little bummed out when I notice the knife emoji has dipped out of my top 8 (what, you guys don’t have an emoji top 8?).

Having a bad day? Knife emoji.

People suck? Knife emoji.

When your fave Chinese food restaurant refuses to deliver? Knife emoji.

Hell, sometimes I just text my sister the knife emoji and it’s like, “enough said. She’s stabby. Leave it alone.”

Which made me think about all of the things that have made me stabby recently. Because there are OH so many. For starters, writer’s block. FUCK writer’s block, man. Hence why I haven’t posted in over a month. Sigh. Because I had a whole lot of nothin’ goin’ on up in this piece. 

So here I am, feeling stabby, and wanting to share it with the world. 

Oh, and to be clear, I would never ACTUALLY stab someone. Only a little bit in the thigh, IF NECESSARY (kidding … kind of)

1. Unicorn everything: Why. Like I get it for little kids. But there’s something that just makes me incredibly sad to see grown ass adults walking, drinking, eating, and covered in unicorn shit. Right?

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2. Jeans covered in mud for $425: Da fuq? That’s all I have to say about that. 

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3. Coachella and everything Coachella-related: Does anyone else find Coachella fashion nauseating? Cut off short shorts with my with ass cheeks hanging out and crocheted crop tops paired with a unicorn-style flower crown, and enough glitter to make a drag queen jealous just doesn’t get my rocks off. Sorry.  

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4. Anything that comes out of Donald Trump’s mouth: I mean, do I need to elaborate?

donald_trump_s_big_mouth_by_cryingcats-da541ic

5. Off the shoulder tops: I kind of wanted to one until I realized, A. Sarah Palin rocked one in the White House and immediately all of them needed to be burned and B. wearing one requires a strapless bra, and we all know how I feel about them. Ladies with big taas need to wear a bra, fortunately and unfortunately all at the same time.

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6. Cramps: I’m currently suffering and just want to have an intimate spooning session with my heating pad. 

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8. What Dakota Johnson or any other star looks like without makeup on: Makeup makes everything better. Who doesn’t feel like a million bucks after going into Sephora for eyeliner and walking out with $200 worth of crap you didn’t need? Also bitch was TOTALLY wearing makeup at the Oscars. Give me a break.

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9. Showing your ass while posing in front of beautiful landscapes: According to Facebook, this is a thing? And it makes me want to leave civilization forever.

10. Slow walkers: Yes, I am that asshole walking way to close behind you so you MOVE THE FUCK ALONG. 

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11. People who email me and refer to me as “LifeSucksInAStraplessBra” then hates on my SEO practices and everything else I have going on in the backend of my blog: How hard is it to look at my bio and be like, “oh her name is Kate,” and then say, “Hey Kate, your SEO practices and all of your other web skills suck and you have MAJOR problems.” Also, stop emailing me because I don’t care. 

12. Sweating/sweating through my bra: Murderous rage. I daydream about whipping that thing off the minute I get home. Sick, right? 

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13. In the same breath, humidity: It’s like yay springtime, outside, frothy drinks, and then the oversized, fat and sweaty palm of the humidity monster bitch slaps me across the face. Nope. Solid nope.

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We All Have Curves – Own It

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Image from: http://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2017-ready-to-wear/christian-siriano/slideshow/collection#18

I can’t tell you how awesome it is to see real women in ads and on the fashion week runways. It’s about damn time. 

Target and Christian Sirano are some great examples of brands that have embraced the fact that most women have curves and cellulite, and their belly giggles, and that being a size 0 really isn’t a “norm.” Um hi, check me off for all of that (I love carbs)

But now I feel like there is a battle going on with the word “curves.” Curves is synonymous with plus size. ASOS’s plus size line is called “Curves.” One of my favorite movie’s of ALL-TIME is, Real Women Have Curves,” with America Ferrera (if you haven’t seen it, what is wrong with you? Seriously. Watch it, like right now … GO). 

I have zero idea why or when the word “curves” became synonymous with plus size (and we all know how I feel about the phrase “plus size” … and if you can’t recall I fucking hate it). 

I get it, saying you’re “curvy” is a lot nicer than saying you’re fat or overweight. But why? Why are we downplaying our curves? Curves rule. Can you picture a life without curves. YAWN. God gave us taas and an ass for a reason, kids. Jesus, have you watched “Real Women Have Curves” yet? Get on it!

And I get why people were infuriated over the Zara ad that had two stick figures telling the world to “embrace their curves.” I totally get why everyone is pissed. BUT … BUT(hear me out, angry mob) they are women. Who cares if they are skelator status, they have teeny tiny little booties, and hey, that makes for some curves. Yes, I’m going literal with the word here, people, deal.

Look, I want to see all different kinds of women in ads (Zara, get on it). I really do. It’s important for all of us to know that no matter your size, or your percentage of belly fat and cellulite, you’re beautiful. And hey, most belly’s giggle (it’s true, I’m sure even Gigi Hadid’s dumbass stomach giggles). 

Some of the most beautiful art work back in the day was of curvy women. They were considered the “Kim Kardashian-standard” of beauty. Look at this gal by Willem de Kooning below. A woman like this could have been in Playboy back in the day. So next time you think you’re fat, or could loose a few LBs, think of this art. And love yourself a little. Every inch of all of your curves. Give them a little squeeze and remember you’re beautiful.

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I think we all need to start embracing our curviness. And stop immediately thinking curves equals being overweight. If you’re overweight, say you’re overweight. Hey … I’m pretty sure I am (did I mention I love carbs … ain’t no shame in my game). And I’m trying to get healthy, that’s all that matters. But even when I was a size 6, I still had curves … because the lord blessed me (or cursed me, either or) with rather large and in charge taas, or “secret bombs” as my friends like to call them (getting REAL personal over here).

One of the best parts of being a woman, no matter if you are a size zero or a size 24, is that we have curves. Own it and embrace it.

The Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion

worst5When you put on something and think to yourself, “am I too old to wear this,” it’s probably one of the most fucked up moments of life … especially if you just turned 30 like I did. Because when did I get to the point in my life when I thought I was too old for ANYTHING

For me, it was when I threw on a black choker. You know … like the ones all the Jenners and Hadids are rocking (sign number one), and the ones I wore in the early-90s? I took one look in the mirror and immediately saw myself as Josie Grosie from Never Been Kissed, pretending to fit in with all the “rad” high school girls … terribly.

Like thinking about the fact that I could potentially wear the same outfits as my 14-year-old niece honestly makes me physically ill. For me AND for her.

But I didn’t take it off. Nope. I kept that sucker on. Mostly because I was mad at myself for even thinking something like that (pshh I’m timeless :::hair flip::: also, where is my Retinol eye cream?), and because I live life by the “Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion.”

What is the Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion you say? Well gather ’round kids. It’s time for a Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra lesson on life. 

Carrie Bradshaw was not some 20-something frolicking around NYC in her Jimmy Choos. Oh no. That bitch was in her 30s for most of Sex and the City (I feel like people overlook that fact). Which is SO refreshing, because now I feel like all we see are 20-somethings living off their parents money and seeing how they can out-hipster one another whilst “figuring it all out” :::cough cough GIRLS cough::: 

Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, Charlotte … all in their 30s during Sex and the City. Which oddly makes me feel so much better about what I have going on and not going on in my life right now.

So back to the Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion … she had no rules. She made up the rules as she went. 

She wore shit like this:

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Oh and did we forget about this:

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And HELLO … the Cafeteria look where she met the comic book dude!?

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Did she look in the mirror and say, “hmm am I too mature to rock a belt around my middriff?” “I wonder if my 14-year-old niece and her friends are wearing the same thing?” NO. She didn’t give a shit. She made it her own, and made it work. Age was never a factor in her outfits. They were fun, creative, and expressed who she was as a person. And dammit, isn’t that what style is all about?

Chokers are fleeting fashion … I know that for a fact. But right now they fit into my style aesthetic. Will I go around rocking mom jeans and white Adidas Shell Toes? Well that is something that just does not fit into my style profile … sorry Hadid- and Jenner-lookalikes. 

So next time you think you’re too old to rock something, rely on the Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion. As long as you aren’t rocking ties over t-shirts a-la Avril Lavigne … I think we are good. Because that shit is never okay.