Wednesday, December 19

On Being (The Direct Inverse Of) Classy

Fashion human Derek Blasberg knows a thing or two about being classy, and as part of that breadth of knowledge I've never particularly been invited to study, has launched a stationary collection with my spirit animal of a store, Opening Ceremony.

Granted, the papers are written in Mad Lib style, so thanking a potential future employer for an interview is as simplistic and ironically effortless as telling my mom "Camp is GOOD, I really like my COUNSELOR and the BOYS CABIN is neat" on fill-in-the-blank postcards penned in an upstate Wisconsin back in the day. But, it's not the pen-to-paper portion I'm concerned about. It's how adorable everyone looked at the launch party:

After being lost in it for a full minute, Magic Eye-style, I came to the unavoidable conclusion floating around my existence: this photo will never be taken of me. Ever! Instead of balancing a dope ass jacket on my shoulders or cutely carrying a tray of tea cakes, I'd be covered in powdered doughnut sugar and flash a full-smile at the cameras when my dental region is on par with a metal mouthed teenager eating a hot dog after getting his braces tightened.

Besides the obvious fact that the St. Regis would most likely politely whisper upon my arrival that "Once today's event is over, we kindly request that you exit the premises", there are so many aspects to this shot that I'd love to be able to pretend I could get away with, but never could. Keyhole jumpers. Doofy poses. Metal-capped kitten heels (A two-for-one!) Shift dresses. Being near pastries and not eating them Homer Simpson-style. Being around fruit and not binge eating it as a healthy alternative to eating pastries Homer Simpson-style. I mean, I walked around a holiday party last week in a completely normal dress and felt like a (high class) hooker because my boobs were slightly on parade and I've been hiding under a singular oversized turtleneck for weeks. Glamming up, lookin' good, smiling with my eyes, showering before going out — it's just not going to happen for me in this lifetime, I don't think.

It's just that I walk super fast since I'm permanently 5 minutes late, so when I arrive anywhere, I instantly melt. I get jittery when talking to strangers under the guise of a party half the time, so some days I'll be on, and others, I'll spurt out words that don't make sense to anyone, even me. I'll make a mental note of what not to bring up, and only discuss that for minutes on end. I'll try to take my coat off and get my rings stuck on it, launching me into a dog-chasing-its-own-tail scenario by way of fur coats and oversized pirate rings. But, if there's ever a spot on future guest lists for a nervous, sweating, oddly accessorized girl to balance out all the pretty, perky perfect ones, then maybe there's a shot for us after all.

(photos via Selectism, Byrne Notice)

1 comment:

Caitlin said...

it's called SMIZING.

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