I live my life by one simple tenet and that is, to do what makes me feel good.
Sometimes that means Australian Licorice, which really shouldn’t call itself licorice, at 7:30AM on Friday (what?) and other times that means wearing a silk scarf wrapped around my head, concealing the entirely of my face as a nod to both Maison Martin Margiela and Kanye West. Where this tenet loses its precursor — simplicity — is when I start to consider the bathing suit.
See, I like bathing suits romantically. They are cool in theory, much the same way that ass-less pants are. Would I like a pair? Sure. They’re an unconventional take on the fragmented homage to the Old West running through fashion right now. And my butt could use a respite from its perennial state of cloaked. Realistically speaking though, what happens when I need to sit down? On the subway? What if my caffeine intake incites a burning case of the runs? What if, by some fault not of my own, I come upon someone else in ass-less chaps and we’re forced to do the bump and grind?
Romantically, a bathing suit seems to evince the spirit of living well. They’re like the physical manifestation of effortlessness. It’s just that when I put one on, it’s all wrong. There are too few layers to account for something I love to do: speak with clothes, not words.
Bathing suits, at least as I have come to know them, aren’t like the sentences that sometimes t-shirts and high waist pants and an interesting pair of shoes can be. They’re just a benign comma that does nothing to the syntax of dressing but what with the weekend on the very imminent horizon and a slideshow of bathing suits chock full of personality in tow, I plan to change that. Rectification effective immediately.
Let me just first finish this purchase on a pair of ass-less pants.