Assuming that you’ve spent the last sixteen seconds clicking through the above slideshow, you are likely questioning a number of things right now.
On the one hand, are those underwear? Yes, I am wearing underwear.
On the other, are those…brown? And yes again, I own several pair of underwear of the brown variety (which is not a testament to skid-marks just the really odd predilections of my color scheming capabilities.)
And on a third hand, just to clear any lingering confusion: yes one more time–I am layering two separate pair of the aforementioned underwear because I layer everything. Those white frills fabricating thigh trim are actually the result of my slightly tugging at a white chiffon underwear, worn beneath the brown pair for, I don’t know, the sake of creating dimension? I’d recommend your trying it but have a feeling you’re going to tell me to put my pants back on any moment–which brings me to what I’d imagine is the next hard hitting question:
Why the fuck am I wearing underwear?
Put simply, I was explaining to Kate about two months ago that I really, really wanted to wear high waist panties with an oversize denim shirt and lace-up sandals out one night. She asked why I hadn’t and discrediting the circumstances of the frigid weather at the time, I sympathized with her question. Here I am, urging all of you to wear precisely what your heart wants you to wear–no matter how uncomfortable, outrageous or inappropriate it may be–while I sit behind a computer screen romanticizing what I want to wear without putting to practice my own advice and the overarching ethos of the site. That doesn’t seem very fair, now does it? So several weeks ago, on the first hyper warm day of spring, I layered two underwear and went out for a stroll.
Interesting deductions? We’re either a city of narcissists or very, very, busy people too fixated on our own doings to even recognize that every now and again, if you look up, you might see a woman walking down Bowery without pants on.