Meet My Fashion Faux Pas
One of my favorite fashion sites, Refinery 29, posted a shocking and terrifying article yesterday concerning fashion faux pas. I clicked on the article proud, laughing like an obnoxious multi-million dollar man in a tuxedo smoking a Cuban cigar. “BAH HA HA … Let’s see what these FOOLS are doing nowadays,” I said to myself, boosting and sipping on my invisible champagne glass filled to the brim with Dom. I was 100% convinced that I could do a touchdown dance after reading the article knowing that I commit ZERO fashion faux pas. Well …
I was wrong. So so very wrong. It’s like some cruel person snatched the invisible glass of Dom right out of my manicured hands saying, “ah, ah AH … not for you, slob.” Out of seven fashion faux pas, I’m guilty of three of them. THREE. :::Sigh::: Don’t look at me, I’m too ashamed.
Yes, I was ashamed. And yes, I was slightly mortified and embarrassed. And once all of that subsided, I picked myself off the ground, snatched my invisible glass of Dom back from the oh so very rude non-existent person who took it from me, and said, “bitch, I’m human.” I. AM. HUMAN. Perfection is impossible. I’ve said it numerous times. That is what makes human beings so rad, and at times, so not very rad.
So I’m going to be open and honest with the fashion faux pas I am guilty of … and I’m not even going to use quotes around faux pas like I initially wanted to, because I guess, in some strange universe, these things are just not cool to do as a person within, or teetering gracefully on, the edge of the fashion industry.
Faux Pas Number 1: Sporting stains, hair, and grime.
Crime: Sigh … I love to sleep and hate mornings. Therefore I will snooze as many times as I possibly can before I know I can’t make the train that will make me late, but not too too late. So that leaves little room for ironing and clothing inspection. Yes, I have shown up to work with tooth paste stains. I also have “slob tendencies.” If I can’t find exactly what I want to wear, I will have a Cher from Clueless moment, sprawled out on my bedroom floor with everything from my closet surrounding me, screaming at my maid, “WHERE’S MY WHITE COLLARLESS SHIRT FROM FRED SEGAL?!” Except I don’t have a maid nor do I own anything from Fred Segal. So yeah, the aftermath means my closet won’t get reconstructed properly until I’ve had enough and go on a cleaning rampage. Clothing on the floor exposes them to my hair, my cat’s hair, wrinkles, and God only knows what else. Hence sometimes, when in a time crunch, I turn a blind eye. JUST sometimes. I blame all of this on not having enough time in the day. Damn adulthood.
Faux Pas Number 2: Pretending to be something you’re not.
Crime: GUILTY. Who isn’t? I remember when I was 17 I was OBSESSED with Ashlee Simpson. Like if I could have skinned her and worn her, I would have (but not in a creepy, murderous kind of way). She was “edgy”, and I was, well, The Gap. 10 years later I’m still going through phases where I become obsessed with being something that just isn’t me. But I give it a whirl for funsies to see if it works, which it never does. Experimentation is necessary, only as long as you are true to who you are. For a long time I tried to make color in my wardrobe happen when I realized, holy hell, self, you only like to wear black. And it isn’t because I’m goth … it is just what I likes. I’ve worn the triple popped collars, and almost, ALMOST purchased a Vera Bradley bag … but at the end of the day I always go back to black. (I personally don’t think this is a faux pas, I think it’s called life. But I’ll play your game, Refinery 29, I’ll play your game.)
Faux Pas Number 3: Wearing clothes that almost fit (but obviously don’t).
Crime: My crime is that I have rather large taas. I can’t help it. God gave them to me. And do you turn a gift down from God? Negative. So wearing buttoned down shirts kind of sucks. Technically I need to get a size larger than I normally would so I wouldn’t get that peek-a-boo window between the two buttons going down my taas so everyone can see my Victoria’s Secret (not that I wear that shit … neither should you), but I refuse. Because the larger size doesn’t look as good. Then the button down shirt stretches across my taas giving me this “fat guy in a little coat” vibe. It’s a mess … yet I continuously do this.
So there are my crimes against fashion. BOOM. But again, I am human … hear me meow.