I am probably the wrong person to go on a rant about anything approaching fashion. Disclaimers abound:
For instance, these, for the past year, are what I would call my going-to-work shoes:
And – true confessions here – these are what I would call my dress shoes:
Truest confession: I have worn the same sweater pretty much every day, all day long and all night long for going on a month now. Cringe-worthy, I know. But it’s been COLD here. And I’ve discovered that alpaca is actually cozier than cashmere. And the CE hasn’t actually complained (raised eyebrows don’t count, right?)
Now that we’re vaxxed and ready to roll out the roller bags, it occurred to me that it’s time to up my fashion game ever so slightly. My motivation tends to lag, because I can actually get away with quite a bit. It’s easy to look like the best-dressed one when the CE, who, for decades before the pandemic was even a gleam in Dr. Fauci’s eye, has been famous for his penchant of wearing what we all affectionately call “clown pants” The word “baggy” just does not begin to describe his favored fit.
I guess that when you’re just that handsome
you can get away with anything.
Seriously, if you saw those pants of his from the back, you would instantly forgive my 24/7 sweater.
Anyway, I was about to turn over a new leaf and dig into my closet at least to find a different sweater.
I opened up The Wall Street Journal and was assaulted by their take on post-pandemic fashion.
This, they say, is where we’re headed:
We’ve somehow endured a year of sustained low-key terror and misery, washing down our groceries, donning layers and layers of masks, squinting from twenty feet to say hello to people you can’t recognize because you’re near-sighted and they’re swathed like a mummy, and the reward for all this?
You discover that Ralph Lauren is now taking fashion cues from my husband.
Dear God, please bring back the lockdown. Permanently. I just want to put on my sweater and hide.