There are three things I believe are truly worth fighting for. The first is your mother’s affection because without it, doctor appointments will never be made. (What? I’m kidding). The second is an aisle seat on an airplane because the middle seat will typically position you between two strangers you will grow to hate simply by virtue of their large arms or tendency to read books audibly, while the window is too far from a port-a-potty excuse for a bathroom that my bladder demand I remain close to.
The third is a good deal. Which is precisely where this nod to winter white comes back into play to tell the tale of the Céline shirt that almost got away but did not because sometimes I act like a neurotic hawk who maintains the inclinations of a Jewish Persian woman — or in other words, my mother.
In 2011, this fancy-ass excuse for a blouse (it is actually the physical manifestation of a tooth fairy) first appeared with its horse hair and white poplin tail and sleeves. At a discouraging price estimation that ultimately became only a fraction of the cited price, I knew we’d never be together. And this was during a time before social proprietorship (you know, that thing where you want something so badly, you post it to all your social networks because even though you don’t have it, at least you can share with your following that you know what’s good), so I was out of luck. So much so that in a bout of protest, I remained naked for the greater half of 2012.
But then six Saturday nights ago, as I laid in bed, dozing off while watching my sweet, sweet iPhone screen project images from Yoox.com’s “Take an Extra 50% Off” sale, there it was. The horse. The hair. The poplin. The me? As is typically the case when an item appears 1431982% off on that website, I imagined the blouse to be either too small (fit for a lean seven-year-old) or too big (damn you, dad, with your large breasts and enormous stomach to fill the blouse spectacularly).
As fate and my recently refreshed PayPal account would have it, though, it was my size, which, of course, elicited the next string of events that went something like this: Oh-mah-gah. Add to cart. Oh-mah-gah. Check out. Oh-mah-gah. Pay. Oh-mah-gah. Wait! Rent. Oh. Mah. Gah.
When it arrived on a Tuesday, it was declaratively well worth near sacrifing the roof atop my head and I’m pretty sure I heard Elton John sing to me in accordance. By Wednesday, I’d worn it three times which seems unusual given the short time distance but I am a woman of tricks that transcend the solidity of time.
Of course, you don’t need this blouse to make your favorite white jeans January appropriate — any cotton shirt should do (like, say, this $30 one from Zara).
But you will need a pair of black booties so we can dance along to Gavin DeGraw’s “Not Over You” in tandem.