Thursday, July 18, 2013

What Not to Wear

I am not an advice giver.  I'm just not.  Judging you based on your decision, that I can do.  But helping you to make that decision?  Passity pass pass.

You can see now why this blog is so wildly popular.  

The Curious Adventures of Wendy Kozak offers no real wisdom or information of any kind other than her current level of pissy.

Now if only there was a helpful chart or something...

Oh.  Well look at that.  And you're in luck.  I would say that I am at about a blue today.

Anyways, back to my original point, which was what exactly...?  Oh yes.  It's kind of too bad that I am not an advice giver because I really like getting advice.  From certain people, this is.  And only on certain topics. And when solicited, of course.  What can I say?  I'm easy like a Sunday morning.

But there is one particular type of counsel that I almost never heed: Fashion advice.

As anyone who frequents el bano of la casa Kozak y Wilks will know, I am a fan of los Fashion magazines.  I'm sorry.  That's gross.  And I don't know why I am typing in Spanglish.  Apologize to your delicate sensibilities for me and while you're at it, reassure them that I usually try to hide my collection in the bath tub when there are guests.  But whatever, go ahead and set your phasers to judge.

I love Fashion mags because they are frivolous--because they are aesthetically pleasing--because they give me all sorts of misguided inspiration.  But when they start launching into the "dress for your shape" and "don't look like an idiot in public," I promptly close my mind to their wiles.  To quote the eloquent guests of the Murray Povich show: "It's my body and I do what I waunt!"

A perfect example of this is rompers.  I have short legs and a pretty long torso.  I also have shoulders like a line backer. (I like to think that this comes from my sheep herding stock).  If you add up all these characteristics, you will quickly see that they equal does not look in good in a romper.  It cuts me in all the wrong kind of ways. And yet, I buy at least one per summer and wear it like it ain't no thang.

Sorry.  Amateurish pose and photo quality.  I would so get kicked off America's Next Top Model before I could charm them all with my winning personality...

The romper dilemma gestures to what I think is a universal truth.  For me at least.  So clearly, still universal: women don't dress for men.  Women don't even dress for women.  Women dress for themselves and themselves alone.

In my more quiet and boring moments of daydream, I have visions of outfits--much like the prophets of the old testament, I'm sure.  Except that in all my visions, I usually look like this:

And so what if I don't actually look like this.  I will continue to dress my imagined Miranda Kerr body foreva.

Moses, bless his little heart, will never tell me that I don't look good in something.  But he has no qualms about telling me when he thinks my outfits are ridiculous.

Case in point this little number that I wore to the Otis Fashion Show:

The photo quality again, I know, but iphones can't always work miracles.

Moses' response this? "It looks nice except for that weird thing in the middle."

Or this outfit:

Yes pinterest sure does make this look easier...

To this outfit, Moses responded: "You look like you're wearing pajamas--like a crazy person who forgot to get dressed for work."

He won.  My clydesdale-like thighs ripped a hole in those pants shortly thereafter.

Or my signature:

"They look like Mom jeans."

Wrong. But even if he wasn't, there's no way that would stop me.  I like what I like even if its something that makes me look a relative of the sea cow family--even if its something they would tell me to soak it in agent orange on What Not to Wear.

So there you have it, advice not taken. On to the next pointless blog post!

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