Mighty Girl Mondays Pt 5

28 Feb

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty and multitasking creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

I’m just going to come out and admit it. I have all the sartorial style of, as my mother once memorably said to me, “a downs syndrome girl that’s been allowed to dress herself”. No, that’s a direct quote, people. I didn’t make that up. And, given she was in a jovial mood that day in 1991, she wasn’t really aiming for critical.

The boho look is lost on me. I can’t do frill, though flirt with vintage. Female tramp does not work on this figure (cue bitter Kreboppelesque laughter) and I rarely wear dresses because, despite what the Goddess may occasionally dream of me, I only wear black leather boots. Kinda big ones. Those ballet flat slippers? Give them to someone who likes kittens. Or dieting. Or exhibiting their calves in any way or form. Generally a bad form, at that. Plus, I generally only wear black because it removes the colour coordination conundrum.

So, despite the fact this all makes me sound like Rollins, I generally think I present well. Ok. Alright, pretty shabby but hopefully in an endearing way. So, I hem my trousers solely with scissors. And get obsessed with jackets. But the Purdy Jane says I dress like an NYC hipster and I will cling to that belief irrespective of evidence or logic. I’m blind to it like Largerfeld is to double digit dress sizes. NYC hipster, people. Commit. It. To. Memory.

I’m enamoured of items with beautiful lines or quirky motifs. I follow fashion press and constantly look at what people wear. Just as there are times when I flirt with colour and design, there are times when it all falls apart with hindenbergesque results.

Like the time I went to this literally underground boutique and spent a great deal of time delighting in the amazing designs. Dresses of near archetypal perfection, accessories befitting Karen o (that warrior deity), tops that made you weep with envy. I tried on several pieces with the help of the adorably kitted out assistant who cooed and gave advice.

Towards the end of the fitting frenzy, I found myself trussed and bound within an exotically sumptuous and edgy piece that defied description. It wrapped around curves and tied off at cute angles. I coveted something I never knew existed. This piece was to define me as a cutting edge maven o’ style! The sales assistant spun me around and declared the piece never looked as good on anyone as it did on my frame. We squeaked with a unified glee during the transaction and I walked out dizzily smug.

That is, until I tried to put it on for a party a week later.

Let me break it down for you people: I paid over $100 for an apron. Under the guise of avant garde fashion.

Amoir: not only an idiot but also receptive to idiotic advice.

(p.s. yes this is two days late. No, it’s not called Mighty Girl Wednesdays, fuck off, etc.)

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