When I was younger, I dreamt about the day where I would be allowed to wear short shorts and tank tops on a regular basis. To me, adulthood was marked by freedom from years of bootcut jeans and sensible cardigans. My mother wouldn’t have to approve my clothes anymore. I could do whatever I want. Go rogue. Maybe dabble in a 4″ heel.
I got that out of my system fairly quickly during my first year at university. An old t-shirt was not an old t-shirt, but a crop top in the making. I tried to DIY all my old clothes into trendier, sexier of-the-moment pieces that symbolized my newfound independence. No high-waisted trouser was safe. I lost a lot of good jeans that year.
Not that I feel bad about this —after all, what is 19 if not a buffer year during which to get your bralette-and-jort tendencies out of the way?— but let me tell you it took a toll.
I was still broke, so the heeled shoes I bought in defiance were hardly the essence of elegance and quality. Instead, they were plastic menaces that will probably lead to podiatric issues down the line and almost killed me multiple times. No, this isn’t me being dramatic: Once, I was walking to class in what I thought were a particularly fetching pair of $29.99 “suede” wedges from Forever 21, took one wrong step, twisted my ankle, and supermanned down the main street of my campus. I lost my dignity, my phone case, and about four years off my life from the public humiliation.
Not to mention the constant annoyance of having to suck in every time I wore a crop top or having to worry about flashing everyone in a too-short skirt. Sometimes, a gal just needs a turtleneck sweater and some wide-legged trousers that may make her look like an escapee from the Olsen clan but make her feel like she’s donned a trendy snuggie.
So instead of finding myself the picture of youth in heel-accessorized LBDs and the like at 23, I find myself dressing more and more like a middle aged mother en route to a power lunch with the gals. You know, Francine and Patricia.
Not to worry though! I fully plan on hitting my sartorial promiscuity sometime in my 70s. Catch me riding in the retirement home golf cart in a leather mini and teetering heels.
Here we have me traipsing around the streets of Tribeca in a tea-length linen skirt and completely unremarkable orange tee. I’m most obsessed with the skirt —which I suspect my grandma also made— since I think it lends a certain “I summer in Cannes” je ne sais quoi. True to form, everything I’m wearing except the shoes were at some point my mother’s.
Also true to form, I toppled over twice in the process of shooting these whimsical twirling shots. And they say blogging doesn’t require sacrifice.