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If I had a nickel for every time panic paralyzed my boyfriend’s face when I asked, ‘Is this belt too eighties with my earrings?’ I could buy solid gold stilettos that a cross-dressing King Midas would lust over.
Let’s be honest for a moment. When it comes to the intricacies of fashion, we women dress for each other. Of course we want the boys to like (lust, adore, pine) us, but there are very few men out there who know something fabulous when they see it. And we start feeling a liiittle suspicious if they do.
The majority of our swaggering male counterparts don’t know and don’t care. God bless them.
Unfortunately, fashion breeds contempt among our female brethren. Nobody wants to walk into a room filled with fierce fashion plates─unless it’s our crew. We scoff, smirk and shit-talk the sexiest woman strutting down the street yet simultaneously take silent inventory of what she’s wearing. If you haven’t sniffed the bitter odor wafting through the air, it’s irony.
But this jealously ain’t no good!
We should be sisters not saboteurs. This neo-middle school is giving me heart palpitations. I can still hear the sweet thwack of snap bracelets on the cool girls’ slender wrists.
(Not to mention their lilting laughter as their budding breasts bounce down the hall to Home-Ec.) Sigh.
There is always gonna be somebody a little cooler, a little more charming, less clumsy, less flat-chested (less like me), not wincing in her sky-high leather booties. The sooner we let our sweet pussy power unite, the better.
Women new to NYC will discover we are still on an intimidating playground. Paris and Milan may have the history and L.A. a sea of sculptured starlets, but I am willing to venture New York is the most intensely “fashionable” city in the world. Instead of one prevailing style, the streets of New York are subdivided into a rainbowed array of women workin’ it left and right.
In Flatbush Brooklyn, technicolored eighties sneakers are back. Here in Manhattan, East, West, North and South, Audrey Hepburns run rampant, leaping over puddles in ballet flats and oversized shades. You will be pleased to know heroin chic is alive and well Saturday nights on the L train─pouting, skinny and still damn sexy.
There is something so right about the skinny jean, bulbous sneak combo. It's like they fell out of my dreams and onto my feet.
Don’t let adolescent envy rear its ugly head! The next time you silently curse out the girl whose punk-rock getup is so h-o-t your sweat is pooling around her Doc Martens or the girl thumbing through Dylan Thomas poems on the subway is nailing “schlumpy chic” so hard it’s ringing in your ears…slip them both into your pocket with a knowing look and a silent, “Hell yeah bitch.”
Yeah, I wanna f*uck that funky little bitch too
Although, in my dark heart I’m still itchin’ like a lovesick junkie for a girl-fight. Starring me.
Retro Adidas and Nike sneakers are absolutely delicious. Love 'em, especially on girls.
On another note, what's up with women and trash-talking? It's a magical journey whenever I do hear it, but really?
By Ousmane on 6/26/2010 at 11:20am
Katie, in the spirit of women hating on women:
Fuck you, this post is so good.
By Kelaine Conochan on 6/26/2010 at 11:20am