So MIA I don’t even remember what A looks like. The irony is that I’ve been laboring over about seven half-written drafts that are either missing text, missing photos, or So Damn Deep that they’re going to require at least three more rounds of revisions before I can force my #whitegirlproblems on your Google reader. While I’m busy being over my crappy camera and scaring myself out of writing real content, I thought I’d return to my roots (seems to be a theme lately. If you’ve seen my scalp in the past two weeks, you know what I’m talking about) and dash off a quick fashion post. Or anti-fashion post, as the case may be.
Fashion “Week” (semantic clarification: this ish has been going on for at least a month) rages on, having fled the continent for an excuse to keep the party going, and I feel like the wizened lush with tally marks on her arm who knows it’s time to bow out. I could tell you all the ~*~MaYjaH TrEnDz~*~ for next fall (fur and maturity, in a nutshell), but frankly, I’m sure anyone who’s concerned has already seen the collections, and even more frankly, I just don’t feel like it. I have such a hard time caring about the fashion industry these days. I’m super broke and super busy and actually feeling pretty super about my wardrobe, so I find myself with little desire to shop or stare at runway slides or do anything that might pull me back into the insatiable whirlwind of consumer culture I had come to embrace on autopilot before quitting my job in retail. I’ve always said that fashion is a hobby and not a passion of mine, and the fact that the industry feels so irrelevant to me right now illustrates that perfectly. I’m still having a grand old time playing mixologist within the confines of my own wardrobe. I just don’t know or care what anyone else is doing. Sorry I’m not sorry. Give me until at least June to figure out what I want to wear next fall, please.
So now that I’ve killed all credibility I ever had as a tastemaker, I’m going to kill all credibility I’ve just established as a independent spirit and confess that I really, really, really need a pair of Isabel Marant-inspired wedge sneakers, like, yesterday (pumped up kicks are a spring thing, okay? I can deal with spring). Reminiscent of last year’s hyper-exposed Prada creepers but infinitely more flattering, highbrow high-tops have been ruling the streets as of late, my favorite interpretation being foxy mama Miranda Kerr’s:
Kicking it. Kicking it with a blazer. Kicking it with a blazer and leather pants. Kicking it with a blazer and leather pants and a baby. Who is your baby wearing, Miranda? I think I need his sweater. Those toggles!
Since Isabel Marant is (ahem) slightly aspirational, I’ve got my sights set on a more affordable rendition by Ash:
As usual, I’m paralyzed by indecision in the color department. The coral and cognac version is the most polished, but the versatility and athletic flair of the all-yellow present an undeniably charming alternative. Yellow and cognac would be the obvious compromise, but funnily enough, I think those are coming in last for me. Opinions? Objections? Gentle shaking of heads? In my defense, every instance in which I’ve been seduced by so-called “fashion sneakers” can be traced on some distant level back to Mary-Kate Olsen. I owned a pair of sparkly turquoise platform Skechers in 1999 that were lifted directly from an episode of Two of a Kind, and three days ago, I went bananas over this:
Working it. Working it with a pashmina. Working it with a pashmina and leather pants. Working it with a pashmina and leather pants and a doppelgänger dressed as a Mennonite? I just can’t.
Do you consider high fashion an end in itself, or is it only fun when it applies to you? Also, I can haz shoe advice? Thanks. Missed you like candy.