I cringe when I read the tale of what I wore yesterday. Will I ever learn from my mistakes? It's clear I should have just worn a high-waisted pant.
Juan's post got me to thinking in a very Carrie Bradshaw manner (fingertips lazily slapping my Apple keys as I loll in my UES one-bedroom, wearing a nightie made of tinkling bells and squatting against a Gucci bedpan). I was riveted by his fashion journey, sure! But one thing that really got my motor running was that deep-V. It triggers such vitriol, such a sour attitude from the masses on such a daily basis that I have to wonder: just Y does the deep-V N-spire such X-treme H8? It is a new classic piece, one that casually embodies that combination of secretary and barmaid that Juan and I strive for. Its chest-baring namesake functions as a helpful beacon: an arrow made of your own flesh, pointing meaningfully down to your girly bits as a reminder that you are a living, breathing creature, not just a mannequin wearing quirky blends of cotton.
In any case, that deep-V might have been able to help me out today, but I ignored its clarion call. I am currently on the subway wearing the closest thing to high-waisted that APC has ever seen, and am literally bursting at the seams, since their salespeople always caution you to buy your jeans 4 sizes too small because they apparently STRETCH OUT at some point. A relatively "professional" appointment today finds me in a decidedly conservative ensemble: a powder blue Steven Alan oxford (the dangerous territory of twenty-seven-year-old bankers who live in Murray Hill) rounds out the denims. Fringed bangs conceal the tenacious zits on my forehead and Wayfarers, hanging on the neck of my not-so-deep-V, say so much, but especially they say Zac Efron.
Catch you later today, when I tire of this mediocrity and return to my oaken wardrobe chest,
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