A brief haiku I made in honour of this outfit:
Where has my skirt gone?
Will I ever dress my age?
Questions that haunt me
Generally speaking, I am a person of extremes. I eat the whole pizza or none at all, because half-assing your carb intake is for quitters and Gwyneth Paltrow. I either dress like I’m a pilgrim going on sabbatical to Mormon Utah or like a 15-year-old who just bought her first push up bra and won’t stop wearing it, even to gym class. There is no in-between. I predict that someday, this habit of mine might come up in therapy.
That said, here is a curious example of what I think the locals refer to as “balance”. Party on the bottom, 1980s business man on the top.
This offensively short skirt is something I panic-bought a few years ago when I was in need of a purple garment and, given the fact that I’m not in 6th grade and/or Barney, couldn’t find anything in my closet. I never wore it, and it ended up shoved in the back of my wardrobe; forgotten, like Ashley Tisdale.
When it resurfaced a few months ago I deduced it was fate and decided to figure out how to wear the skirt, if only because I’d already paid for it and my good Greek mother instilled buyer’s guilt in me from a young age. A short skirt demands something positively Amish for one’s upper region, so I wore a dark grey turtleneck (trying something new here!) and a grey-and-black checkered blazer complete with shoulder pads that I stole from a quarterback.
And because I happen to own a pair of burgundy heeled boots I’ve worn a grand total of two times because I can’t walk in them (practicality is not a cornerstone tenet of WhatKumquat), I threw those into the mix. See? I can match colours as well as any third grader. And they say bloggers have no talent.