I dipped my toe in Fashion Week's hoity tioty extravaganza and stumbled upon a show that fits where I do in the fashion world: a low rent ho stroll in the penthouse of some apartment building where the elevator's broken.
My friend Alex swore this Hot Topic-goes-to-the gay-beach-club line was the new Rag and Bone, so I sweat up 12 flights of steps (the most cardio I've done since 2006) and was greeted with Brooklyn Royalty's messy Spring 2009 collection of gaudy designs, shapes, swirls and swooshes.
While some pieces—silver moon pants, tacky wife beater with neon tulle— might be the picture of elegance in some cultures, I'm more of a classic-color-and-cut-that-flatters type of a girl. Michael Kors and Nina Garcia would've had a claws out hissfest had designer Bob Bland been a contestant on Project Runway.
No matter the heinous things falling out of my mouth right now, rest easy that karma gets me in the end. Each morning I open my closet to four or five worn outfits and three pairs of Payless Shoes.
It's like a refrigerator with only Kraft Singles and moldy bread.
I do manage to mix it up a bit, though. Today I wore last Tuesday's dress and tomorrow I may mix and match Friday's pants with Thursday's shirt.
0 comments:
Post a Comment