faux pas
the domestic minx
10 Comments
I consider myself a fashionable minx.I read Vogue.
I watch Fashion TV.
I shop. Lots.
But there are skeletons in my closet...
They rattle about, disturbing my sleep, unsettling my demeanour, crudely reminding me of the embarrassing and profoundly unfashionable moments in my life.
I know them all by name and
I know them too well
Fashion faux pas.
Wardrobe Malfunctions.
and, most heinous of all,
those dirty incidents involving The Fashion Police.
I still recoil at the memory of a perfectly atrocious royal blue jogger suit with red numerical details. Purchased in the deeply unfashionable outpost of Balikpapan in Borneo it cost all of $8.00 and while bearing the virtue of being convincingly similar to one Madonna had been sporting, it also presented itself as the perfect lounge wear for the long haul flight from Kalimantan to London. It was 1997 and I had been in the jungle too long. Passing through customs I realized my mistake. The royal blue jogger suit with its vile details was a vulgar abomination. It stank. Three minutes on the streets of London and the fashion police had put out an APB. I spotted them from the corner of my eye. Walkie talkies, scornful faces.
Heart racing, cheeks florid, I made a break for it.
Awkwardly, alas, in the equally vulgar red Spice Girl platform sneakers. I didn't get far. They had me. I was handcuffed and booked before I knew it.
The international violation joined the file, embarrassingly plump with other offences. Those other skeletons in the closet...
- The ill-fitting jeans with zips running the length of the leg.
- The voluminous New Romantic white puffy shirt worn with red stockings.
- The toxic smelling white vinyl jerkin with multitudinous straps, d-ring details and polyester fur around the neck. I acquired another in black. (Also bought in Indonesia. Yes, I deserve to be slapped.)
The list is long and lamentable...
In my own defence, however, it is not so much the awfulness of what I have purchased and paraded, it is very often the inappropriate ways in which I have chosen to exhibit perfectly decent pieces of clothing.
Like today:
If you've ever had A Glamorous Friend you will appreciate this particular quandary.
It was lunch with my very special,
uber gorgeous, uber stylish friend C.
C always looks good. Great. Glamorous. Chic.
It is never over done. It is always expensive. It is always appropriate.
Having just spent a fortune on the new season mini dress with voluminous sleeves and intricate frontal detailing, high waist leather belt, patterned leggings and, most important of all, (drum roll) my 35th pair of boots,
(an inspired and fabulous combination of black leather, strap details, stacked wooden platform and heel with corrugated rubber sole), I was anxious to impress.
Despite the weather. The unseasonal weather.
For my outfit to work it should have been the expected cool 24 degrees Celcius.
But oh no.
Today it was 36 and humid.
It was so humid it could have been Indonesia.
But I was wearing my outfit. Dammit.
If it killed me.
And, let me tell you, it nearly did.
C had booked our table at The Subi. It was hot. It was happening.
Hot alright. It was damn hot. And our table was outside. In the sun.
I don't need to elaborate on the rivulets of perspiration running beneath the intricate frontal detailing, from my high waist belt to my patterned leggings. You can probably imagine the bloated sausages sitting inside the fabulous boots with the wooden platform heel and corrugated rubber sole. I don't need to explain the interaction between the menu and the melting makeup face.
C sat there as cool as a cucumber in her lightweight silk sheath over linen pants and understated sandals. When she tossed her long and perfectly manicured mane it was in the name of all that is carefree and casual, not because her limp locks had stuck to the side of her smeared and sweating face.
C picked up the bill. I think she felt sorry for me.
I handed myself in to the Fashion Police on the way home.
They looked me up and down, shook their heads, pursed their lips and added the offence to my file.
The skeletons in my closet were rattling when I got home.
I've got some warm clothes for them to wear.
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Reader Comments (10)
Ah the whims of fashion are fickle indeed. I too have had some horrific fashion faux pas in my days. I just tell myself that I'm ahead of my time. Who wants to be perfect...it's so...D U L L.
You weren't sweaty...you were sexy. That outfit sounds seriously saucy, Minx.
xox
M
Oh, my Divine Miss M, it was saucy, alright. It was hot!
Damned hot!
And most certainly ahead of it's time - by about four weeks...
I blame global warming...
xox
The last time I was in a social setting and that sweaty...it was a backyard barbecue replete with swine on spit. I broke out into a hormone related sweat fest while sipping chardonnay and talking to some friends of the host, my former boss. Instead of ignoring the river of liquid pouring down my face...I blurted out...loudly and with wine infused feeling: "I'm sweating like a stuck pig!"
Said friends of host turned tail and ran. I was oddly not invited back for this year's pig roast. Some people...geesh.
You are hilarious!!
I'm surprised those tail turners didn't instead try to work the swine reference and lick you. (eek)
Which, with wine infused feeling, does happen on occasion, doesn't it...
Doesn't it?
Oh.
Okay, well, we'll just leave it at that then.
Chardonnay anyone? anyone?
Cheers, my friend!
I am so glad I'm not alone in my inappropriate, but utter fabulousness!!!
xox
Oh, I know poppet, I really really know
I still want the boots
I hope you're not talking about my NEW boots, darling!!
It's absolutely hands off those precious babies.
smack smack
ohhhh YES
!! But a lots of darling 
oops mon message s'est affacé à moitié :( Je disais donc : beaucoup de Chardonnay !!
Et tu égayes mes matinées au bureau, j'adore !
Merci Violette chéri,
J'ai lu la belle et le parle de sois chaque matin trop avec beaucoup de joie et de rire !! Je l'aime!
Plus de chardonnay, plus de merlot, Sil vous plait!!
Ah Cherie...
(lips pursed...eyes rolling)