Rants, Tangents, and Botox

I've come to the decision that you should wear anything that makes you smile, as long as it doesn't stray too far from the bounds of propriety. (Translation: dressing like a hooker strays too far.)

A lot of fashion is totally unreasonable, and many of us have accepted that. We know that open-toe booties and sandals with six inches of leather encasing the ankle are kind of ridiculous. We know that fake hands adorning garments, sequined dresses that weigh more than cinder blocks (I only exaggerate a little), and lens-less glasses have left practicality far behind. And we don't care, as long as they make us happy. And that's okay. That's good. We're having fun.

What brought on this impassioned bit of ranting? A few things.

I spent a few hours at the mall tonight, checking out the new Forever 21, bopping into Zara, and spending a bit of my gift certificate from the camp I spoke at. At Zara, I was weeding through the sale rack when I saw the brightest, most fantastically ugly tunic-tank-sweatshirt-dress thing. It was loud, boldly patterned, and I kind of loved it. After trying it on, I headed to the cash register to pay. The man at the register wrinkled his nose in distaste as I handed over my find. Handling it gingerly, he grimaced at me like I was a crazy woman he was trying to coax from the brink of a breakdown. And then he gently informed me of the return policy.

Clearly he didn't understand my reasoning. I wanted to scream, "The top made me smile, dammit!' but instead I closed my fingers around the handle of the bag he gave me, wished him a good evening, and felt the beginnings of a shopping-induced high. Maybe he'll learn to let loose a bit some day.

Having thoroughly studied the most recent Vogue, I'm not so sure the magazine staff are so in tune with my thoughts either. I guess fashion magazines have to take fashion seriously to keep their credibility- except, of course, the delicious Missbehave - but that is still no excuse for falling into the cliche of releasing an "age" issue. Thumbing through articles informing me what women should wear during each decade of their adult lives definitely makes me feel a little sick, as does detailed accounts of how and when to get some "work" done to get rid of the physical signs of aging. I don't understand why growing older means switching from playful to professional, why a single group of writers can dictate styling choices for thousands of women, their choices based solely on age. I mean no disrespect to Vogue - honestly, it's one of my favorite reads - but I'm upset to see such a major publication give such absolute advice (or at least absolute nonsense.) And making women feel that they need to get botulism injected into their faces and incisions all over their bodies or else be considered unattractive really pushes my buttons. Plastic surgery has its time and place, I suppose, but aging is normal and it happens to everyone. It's supposed to happen. Those wrinkles are a sign of many years spent smiling and walking in the sun. Those bits of loose flesh come from decadent meals and the same gravitational pull that has allowed us to run and jump and relax on the couch all these years. The signs of aging may not be gorgeous, but they are a physical record of the fun we've had living out lives. So please, dear Vogue, try to embrace that. I dare you.

Ooops, did I go off on tangents galore? Oh well. I'm sleepy, so that's my excuse. If I wasn't lazy, I'd break this into two posts.

In conclusion, have fun with fashion, beauty, life, etc. I am not a fan of botox. The end.