Me, Myself, And A Wardrobe Malfunction

Jennifer-LawrencesWhen it comes to packing for a long weekend, or an event, I always pack a backup outfit. Even if I’m dead set on what I’m wearing, I always have something else to fall back on … God forbid. Except … this weekend.

After work I was headed to a friend’s house to get dressed for our other friends bachelorette party. Now, because I hate lugging things around town, I decided to only pack the outfit I was going to wear because it was my black leather pencil skirt, new shoes (which I wrote about like 15 times last week) and a simple black lace tank. In the words of “Yonce,” it was “flawless.” That skirt is hands down is my favorite article of clothing because A. I got it for a ridic price at Loehmans (RIP) and B. it fits me like a glove. So why would anyone need a backup outfit when dealing with such perfection … right?

A glass of wine down and a few moments of relaxation, I decided to start the dreaded “getting ready” process, which usually leads me to start sweating profusely and getting extremely anxious (hence why I only go to dive bars now where sweats are totally acceptable). “Da club” outfits stress me out. The hair, the makeup, the “do I look fat” questions … oyyy.

So I put on my black lace tank, shimmied up my black leather pencil skirt, awkwardly reached behind me back to zip it up, and realized I had gotten it caught on my black lace tank. Shit. Zipper up: nothing. Zipper down: nothing. So thankfully the bride-to-be was sitting right there, so I called her in for assistance.

The worst possible thing you can hear when someone is zipping you up is “shit.” And alas, that was what I heard. “Umm your zipper just broke,” she exclaimed softly for fear rage may travel through my body making my head explode.

Me: What … no … stop … what?
:::Moves to the mirror to see the damage:::
Me: Fuck.
Friend: Let’s just find some pliers.
Me: PLIERS?! I’m trapped! I can’t even get this thing off of me!
Friend: We can fix this. Let’s just shimmy it over your head.
Me: ARFGHSDKGHSK :::Fiddling with the zipper:::

And that is when the handle of the zipper (probably not the proper term for it, I’m aware) broke off. And that is when, out of sheer rage, I ripped open the zipper like the Incredibly Hulk. Leading my friends to consider fleeing for safety.

So there I was, standing in my favorite black leather pencil skirt that was just shot to shit … with absolutely nothing to wear. Nothing. Besides what I wore to work, which was a stupid cotton dress, when all of my girlfriends looked like they were going out to dinner with Carrie Bradshaw.

Moments like that, you’re hopeless. Literally. Screwed. Do I run home, which would take me time, or do I go buy something quickly, which means I will only be shopping for need instead of want, and I probably won’t really like it. Do I show the world my birthday suit? Or better yet, do I go “Carrie” style and start destroying and killing everything in my path?

As much as I wanted to go with the later, I took a deep breath and decided to work with what I had … AKA my friends closet. Not much more you can ask for. Hence why having really good girlfriends who know you well enough to just start throwing her black dresses at you until you find one you like and fits is SO very important in this life.

So my friends, lesson learned. Shit breaks. Shit goes to shit. It happens. But there is always a solution. Wardrobe malfunctions happen … even Nicki Minaj knows that. You just need to take a deep breath, maybe chug some alcohol (if you are of age) be resourceful … and pray you are your girlfriends you are with are the same size.

For those of you concerned (I know you are secretly), my black leather skirt is currently at the dry cleaners getting a brand new shiny zipper. We will be together again this Friday.

Cursed With Pointy ‘Bows, Much?

Screen shot 2012-12-02 at 8.46.18 PMYou can file this under #FirstWorldProblems all you want, but as of now it is effecting my wardrobe, which is therefore effecting my bank account, which is therefore effecting my future life plans, which is probably, in some way, shape or form, effecting the future of the United States economy … and so on and so forth.

What is this dreadful problem, you ask? Slowly but surely, every single one of my long-sleeved T-shirts has a hole in the elbow region. :::Sigh::: The reason why this type of hole is so troublesome is because you literally can do nothing but throw the sweater, shirt or cardigan away because the more you bend your arm, the bigger the hole gets. And you know … quite frankly I just don’t like giving up that easily.

Not to mention, it is a “covert op” hole. It’s not like when you put on a pair of stockings and notice a run immediately because it is starring you right in the face. Oh no … and honestly, who checks out their elbows before leaving the house. Makeup? Check. Right shoe? Check. Left shoe? Check. Deodorant? Check. [Awkwardly put your elbows to the side like you are about to get down with the chicken dance] Holes in the elbow region? Nope … all is well! DAY … LET’S DO THIS :::jumps in mid-air:::

I mean for the love of Jesus … I barely have time to take a second look to make sure I don’t have a piece of hair sticking up like Alfalfa let alone do a full body scan to check for holes in clothing. In my world, especially in the morning, if I can’t see it, it therefore doesn’t exist.

But unfortunately, these embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions are noticeable. To my dismay, they don’t wear a cloak of invisibility. In fact, sometimes it feels like the minute I step outside of my house, the universe highlights them in electric pink so every overly observant person can make it their distinct mission in life to make me aware of said malfunction. “Good morni …” “OOOH HONEY … LOOK AT THAT HOLE! YIKES …” Really? Seriously? Thanks for pointing it out and all, first and foremost, but honestly … what would you like me to do? I have legit two options. Number 1. I can acknowledge the hole. Wish it well. Become one with it. Accept it … and move the hell on with my day. OR number 2 … I can take the hole-ridden shirt off and just rock my skivvies all day. Hmmm … decisions, decisions.

These people, the overly observant ones, think they are doing a good deed by making the wardrobe malfunction known … which sometimes, yes … you are. But before making it your job to potentially put a downer on someones day by alerting them of something they have been desperately trying to ignore … ask yourself the following questions:

1. Can said malfunction be fixed? Meaning, can a Tide Stick, dab of club soda, quick stitch … etc. heal the situation? If not … zip thy lip.

2. Are any inappropriate body parts being exposed? Nip slips, ass cracks … sure, these things need to be quietly dealt with ASAP. But if not … for example if a shoulder is overly exposed  …

3. Is the person you are about to alert look like they are having a bad day? If so, (and I mean this in the most polite way possible) Back. the. fuck. off. Chances are they know of said malfunction, aren’t happy about it, and the last thing they need is you bringing it up.

One day … to prove a point …when someone annoyingly tells me about something I have no control over, like a hole on the elbow part of my shirt, I’m going to kindly say, “Oh my word … thank you SO much … how embarrassing!” rip my shirt off and call it a day. #Winning …