The trouble with telling people that you write about fashion is that people automatically ask you what you think about their outfits, and that can end in heartache, and by “heartache” naturally I mean “an entire weekend spent with twelve ounces of the finest porterhouse strapped on your recently rearranged face.”
Do not, under any circumstance heed the old chestnut “unless you have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all” for this will end in heartache as well. Not saying anything when confronted by a big girl who –from the tip of her Bjork mini-bunned head to the bottom of her beskulled stirrup-panted feet– is the hottest hot mess in the tri-county area will always fail.
Would that I had listened to my own advice. Thankfully, I escaped what our friend Billy S. refers to as a “predestinate scratched face” but not by much.
Which brings me to my second point: unless you are currently straddling a horse, stirrup pants = no.
Until a few days ago, had you bet me cash money that you could go into a store and emerge with a pair of stirrup pants I would have taken your bet and planned all sorts of vainglorious and complicated victory dances plus an array of remarks involving “your mom” to be performed upon my certain triumph.
Yet somehow they are making a resurgence. Who? Who are these people? Do they not know what pants are? Did my 5th grade closet become some sort of sacred shrine without me knowing? And most importantly, if stirrup pants are back, how far away can we possibly be from puffpaint sweatshirts, multiple Swatches and, God help me, butt bows?
The lip, she quivers.