While in New York I dragged my hubby to quaint boutiques, poor chap. And the clothes, obviously, were fun to check out. But the most fun was the fashion not on the rack, but prancing down the street. Sure an amazing couture dress hovering above stilts as they teeter into a hushed restaurant snags my eye, but what makes me openly stare is people in their daily wares and how they choose to spice them up. It’s the middle of the week, in the middle of the day and they’re going only Lord Knows Where.
I saw a scene usually reserved for Chinese paper fans now printed on leggins paired with blue sequined shoes, a cheap prom dress or layers upon layers of a top so deconstructed, I wasn’t sure if was a blouse or a scarf extraordinaire. All of it interesting, all of it fun.
Then there was inner ware as outer wear. Bras, nighties, lace, lace and more lace. Southern belle skirts with black leggins. Black skinny jeans. Leopard skinny jeans. Black skinny jeans with leopard booties. Black skinny jeans so tight she had to lay down to zip them up. Go ‘head girl.
And the belts. Big belts, flat belts, skinny belts, braided, leather, pleather, plastic. I won’t even get started on the shoes.
Yet let me not forget the short short. One morning, a woman in her late 40s/early 50s was rockin these black short shorts with red heels and a peasant top. She didn’t have cellulite. Isn’t that against some law? If I had cellulite in my 20s, why can’t *she* have it in her 40s? And it wasn’t that she had crazy muscles, there was jiggle, there just wasn’t any cottage cheese. To me she looked like she needed to put more clothes on, but mostly I was proud of her, go ahead with your great gams at 40+. Clearly, she still had *it.*
Do I see this in Chicago? Sure! Of course, but for the most part, we’re more reserved. A little more black and khaki with bright spots of red, not many covered in sequins or faux prom dresses while straddling a 10 speed.