Oh My Palazzo
On the other end of resort’s spectrum, where pencil skirts are not welcome but floating bodies are still relevant: pants are short, skirts are pants, minds are blown, and we are dancer. Today on TMR, a salutation to pant’s new length. Behold a cropped silhouette made for ladies who love their fupas enough to modestly preserve them–that shit isn’t for everybody’s eyes–and their ankles enough to show them off, flashy flashy. It’s a pant that celebrates space, roominess, freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Free-dumb and the future is into it. Above you’ll see from left a brocade metallic suit that kind of looks like a fanny-pack–use your most innovative eye–by Marc Jacobs, a multi-dimensional printed bit in motion courtesy of Celine and finally, the token 70s kickback a la Gucci. Note the purse, burnt orange, subtle makeup and that these are not reminiscent of the early 2k inexplicable phenomenon, gaucho pants. Below you’ll see me.
Looking saucy while exercising my oral muscles. This is actually a strapless jumpsuit that digs into my nether regions and produces pretty severe camel toe, it’s not unlike the fupa in that it enjoys preservation and thus not blind you in the eye courtesy of the previously stated roominess. The jacket of all jackets makes a cameo too and perhaps suggests another sort of thematic repelling: formal affair.
I’m never one to sit out the potential test driving of a trend so before I could even plausibly ask myself: would I wear this, do I want to wear this? I did wear it. Reactions ran the gamut: One woman said, “nice dress.” It’s not a dress. Another said, “you would wear that.” I sure would. And one straight man asked me if that was a sache around my waist to which I replied, “do you drink skim cappucinos?” The shocking bit of it all is that no one so much as second questioned the jacket and I’ll have to admit I’m a bit disappointed. Somehow, it feels like a fabric flu shot: no matter the intensity of illness (ruffle) going around, everyone just seems immune.