Every time I post I miscalculate how many reasons preceded the post I'm working on, so lord knows (oh yes HE does) how many posts I've accumulated under improper numerical headings. I've never been good at math. Mrs. Manganelli, my seventh grade pre-Algebra teacher can attest to that. She wore tartan flannel shorts with opaque navy tights and had a frosted corkskrew permanent she obviously didn't care for properly because it was constantly fried, but unlike a rapturously delicious and crisp chicken leg and more like a cocker spaniel.
So, Quoddy. In spite of my sustained passion for all things frivolous in fashion (Marc Jacobs multi-strap white maryjanes anyone? authentic antique Victorian ankle boots? chiffon cocktail dresses with built-in scarves for additional flounce?) I have begun to take several steps backwards in evaluating my aesthetic, and the aesthetic I favor in general. This is not entirely a conscious thing, but perhaps a reaction to the crazy bright colors/mixed patterns I've been sporting for nearly a decade.
In addition to taffeta houndstooth electric wonderland, I also crave sturdiness and peace of mind. Khakis, button-downs, simple jewelry, unobtrusive wrist watches, very very basic haircuts. Shit, I haven't gotten a haircut in a year and two months. I definitely don't want to have mermaidtastic goddess hair (which would never happen with my hair texture anyways) but I'm taking it easy, seeing where things go, avoiding funky textured mess blonde punkface in favor of natural.
Too soon? Alexander McQueen equals snooze. I get it. I get that he made insane reptilian shoes and popularized skulls to such a degree that seeing one on a lightweight scarf makes me want to puke. I'm sorry for anyone who hates him/herself enough to turn to suicide (chortle). But how many butterfly gowns can one wear before losing his/her mind? How many his/hers can I toss in before becoming Julia Kristeva/some kind of suburban master bathroom?
Oh Quoddy. You represent the best in practicality, in gender neutrality. Your grizzly boots can be made for me, or my boat-footed husband. Your ring boots can be worn with liberty print, the Rodarte Gilt skirt I wanted so desperately but couldn't afford, and all manner of vintage.
Quoddy, rescue my sequins from unbearable girlishness and dislikeable frivolity. I love sequins. LOVE. THEM. But not all the time. And not with everything. No, I'm not becoming serious, or sensible. More like tactful? Tasteful? Malaprop central?
Quoddy boots are hand stitched in Maine. I spoke with the owner *on the phone.* WHILE HE STITCHED A PAIR OF THEM WITH HIS BARE HANDS. They have a lifetime guarantee. They don't showcase their designs on models.
(I hate models. But we'll get to that tomorrow.)
Maybe I'm yearning for a false reality, an unobtainable grittiness. Or maybe for a sense of rugged dimension heretofore lacking.
I do, after all, love my A.P.C. jeans.