by Rhonda Hansome
She’s wearing two different prints! The blouse is obviously strewn with spring
flowers and the skirt is clearly large tropical palm. Mismatched?
Well, they didn’t so much offend the eye as surprise it with unexpected
harmony. Her city stride is
confident in an off-hand ( I’m fly wearing two completely different patterns) kind
of way. Damn! I envied her and her shapely, but not
mile wide ass, cupped by the lush leaf print on her pencil skirt, beckoning
glances along the avenue.
Among the various things I’ve longed for (including fortune,
free and easy swinging hair, love, fame, section 8, and a father) I’ve always
wanted to sport, with an undeniable flair, complementing but completely
different prints. You can have
your world peace and end to global poverty wishes. I want to wear stripes with dots, plaid with stars, a paisley
with madras in a combination transforming me into - a cross between Naomi
Campbell and Heidi Klum. Naomi
Klum world famous jet set featured model of the elite Ebony Fashion Fair
Fashion Show. Alas, I live a life
ever plagued by unattainable fashion goals. Curse my first issue of Seventeen Magazine and its coveted summer
discovery, the dirndl skirt; a garment that no matter the fabric, made me look
like I was hastily dressed in an accordion.
In spite of my feminist leanings (akin to the slant of your
aunt’s old card table used only for Thanksgiving and funeral repasts) I long
for fashion satori. It has spent my lifetime eluding me. I’m aware (with my nose pressed firmly
against the glass guarding an Alexander McQueen museum ensconced display) that my
quest could only be satisfied by a full time stylist, tailor and unlimited
income. And yet in the immortal
words of Martin Luther King, “I have a dream.” As long as November follows October I will forever fantasize
myself in “winter white”. It is a flagrant flouting of the “no
white after Labor Day” rule that is at once rebellious and luxurious. I can’t avoid this sartorial daydream. I perambulate blocking the seasonal chill
and wind swathed in shades of ecru, buttermilk, eggshell and cream; a mass of
pale textures playing against my chocolate hued skin. IF I could actually pull that look together from boots to cashmere*
toque, I’d have less than a minute to enjoy the outfit’s pristine impact before
a spot, stain, smudge, or spill besmirched an element or the entire pretentious
ensemble. Pre-theater drinks
at a French bistro = red wine on my slacks. Cozy Italian dinner = pasta sauce on my boucle sweater. Short stroll to the museum = boots irreparably scuffed and dinged. You say, “Rhonda it’s a FANTASY, there
must be the possibility of your wearing “winter white” without incident!” Ha, ha, ha, you amuse me…
Fashion longings and nightmares have stalked me since I
turned seven and for three years straight my age and shoe size synched. Traumatized, I would never again wear
Mary Janes. Just this month when
blowing out my birthday candle I silently wished (my annual request) for feet
two sizes smaller than my current size 11W. I have delirious visions of walking
into a Stuart Weitzman or Christian Louboutin shoe sanctuary, I mean store and
sliding a practically invisible size 9 REGULAR WIDTH foot comfortably into the
latest styles; alack for size 11
wide me the beautiful sexy shoe cabinet** just does not exist.
What’s a girl running bare foot from the ghosts of Naomi
Klum to do?
This girl whose mother
was an accomplished seamstress of Vogue patterns, a girl who took sewing lessons
at her downtown Singer Sewing Machine center and a year of sewing at her
Catholic girl’s school?
Iguess
just watch Project Runway and dream…
Now just between you and me, what’s your fashion guilty
pleasure, nightmare or Holy Grail?
*Political
correctness compelled me, even in my fantasy, to eschew my desired white fox
head wrap.
** For access to this cabinet see the London hand crafted,
custom shoe maker and the aforementioned unlimited income.
