When Bad Fashion Happens To Good People

DAHLINGS -

I was leafing through Vogue, the "Age Issue," as they call it. While I myself have absolutely no idea of my chronological age (through circumstances I have explained in this very blog-thing), it's an interesting read. Who knew the world's chicest 52-year-old is a tycoon who makes Chicken Tenders for Burger King and other health-destroying foods? Of course, she herself dines on spinach salad...let the poor folk have the cholestorol.

In any event, I was thinking about age-appropriate wear, whatever that term may mean. When I was last in New York City, I could not but notice how many women are wearing tops that are meant to look too tight, especially in the stomach area. These are worn with low-rise pants or skirts riding the hips. It's bad enough on young girls, but women over 25...words fail one. Noises, yes, words, no. Bleagh.

No, don't put that in, you idiot! Nonverbal communication is just that, nonverbal, and has no place in my blog-thing!

I tell you, as soon as I get a computer that can type itself, my personal assistant is gone.

Pardonnez moi. Back on topic. That train of thought led me to a dear friend who, alas, is somewhat taste-challenged when it comes to her wardrobe. Although she is well past forty and quite plump, she enjoys wearing camisoles with contrasting bras and low-rise jeans. More power to her, I think, trying not to look at the lumps of flesh oozing over her waistband--or hipband, more to the point. After all, I am a plus-sized female and therefore should support a woman's right to ooze.

However, the piece de' resistance was a golden gown she purchased while traveling, custom-made, mind you. She rhapsodized about it, making certain that I knew exactly the astronomical amount of money it was costing (this is another trait I generously try to overlook). Apparently it was a masterpiece of the dressmaker's art, in fine Italian satin. I couldn't wait to see it. What woman doesn't love gold?

I should have waited.

I went to her country estate, she flung upon the armoire, and there, mes enfants, hung a dress that would not have been out of place on the clearance rack at J.C. Penny's after prom season. It was gold, sleeveless, with a gaudy, huge rhinestone triangle just under the plunging neckline. With a false smile of admiration, I asked to examine it (what can I say, years as a clothing seller has made me a bit compulsive.) As is my habit, I opened the neckline to look inside at the seams.

As I touched the fabric, a shock went through me.

The fine Italian satin, that had cost thousands of dollars...

was polyester.

I had not the heart to tell my bosom chum. Why burst her bubble, when she was so delighted? Why tell her that the seamstresses knew they had a rich American for the taking?

More to the point, why hadn't she taken me along? I would have led her down the path of Fashion In The True Sense, where silk is silk and not something made out of plastic.

But one must let people make their own mistakes--

So you can gloat about them later.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog