Skirt: On the list of sins committed against the planet and humanity, buying extremely cheap clothes from companies named by password generators like, Jauz34der or NUUUvixxx! off of Amazons is relatively small but impossible to forgive. Especially if you have wardrobe enough to outfit an entire summer season of repertory theatre plus a mid-year “Christmas Carol” if you include the contents second bedroom closet. There was absolutely no good reason for me to buy this skirt. I have multiple tulle skirts. It has all sorts of illogical seams and the fabric quality of a chemistry experiment (or maybe a meth manufacture) gone horribly awry. I’m sure it was made by horrifically underpaid workers in, just as sure as I am that is both highly combustible yet so slow to biodegrade it will outlast us all and the whole exclusion zone of radioactive waste.
Why did I buy it? I don’t know. Why do we do things we oughtn’t? Poor impulse control? Heedless profligacy? Lack of Moral Fiber? Pazuzu? Gin? Instagram Ads? Is it cute? Obviously. So are gibbons and young Joseph Stalin. Cute can turn on you. Fast. But this is the second time I wore this skirt in a week of events and it hasn’t fallen apart yet, so it could be worse.
Sweater: My mother bought me this sweater for Christmas a few years back. I like it a lot, though it is almost uncomfortably short. But everything has been kind of short since the dawn of this new crop top era. The one that began around 2021ish, when most of our sun-deprived midriffs had spent 12-18 months slouching over the waistband of work-from-home approved sweatpants whilst we attempted to mitigate our existential panic by stress eating bulk quantities of cheese in isolation. The whole post covid crop top became both a kind of shibboleth for the hardcore Coronavirus Peloton set and a clear way to tell to which friends actually ate the lumpy baking projects we delivered masked, outside, and at a six month1 distance.
I’ve never been a crop top girl. Even as a “Borderline” fanatic, I was too sure that the look wasn’t for me. And by the time I was a teenager,I didn’t have a belly button tattoo or a burning desire to dress like I was trying to get expelled from Catholic School (but love you, Britney). I prefered oversized cardigan sweaters and the dresses your grandmother wore to church in 1960 in those days. And there wasn’t much to say about the stomach I’d be showing off, youthful and as expansive and pale as a gallon of spilt milk on a sidewalk. Not something crying out to be seen, even, maybe even especially, by me
The weird part is that I kind of caved, though I waited to age 46 to buy my first two-piece bathing suit. By then, I had a full set of surgical scars and I was about to come by another that would the great white expanse like landmarks on an map of Antarctica, but like, who cares? Bikinis are easier. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I mean, I spent years trying to cover up and wear all the right flattering, diminishing things and it really didn’t improve my life in any meaningful way. So red bikinis and crop tops and tutus at 47 it is. Might as well have a good time.
Shoes: Covered here.
Earrings: Covered here.
Outfit: As my second outfit of the day, this ended up being the perfect thing for traditional Christmas Eve Dinner (beast, Yorkshire Pudding, roast potatoes, lime carrots, broccoli with a gluttonous amount of Hollandaise). My stepfather made eggnog with Mezcal in it. The aftereffects may be seen below.
A couple of longtime family friends joined us and we exchanged gifts after dinner. They gave me a mustard yellow scarf/shawl from Iceland, and told a story about sharing knitwear recommendations with a helicopter pilot. I liked the scawl. I immediately accessorized with wrapping paper brooches and the cracker crown.
Skirt: Black tulle and silver sequins, Amazon, 2023
Sweater: Lulu’s, black cotton, Christmas 2020
Shoes: Madewell, 2023
Earrings: Peel Gallery, Carrboro, 2021
1I’m leaving this typo here because I love it.
Tiny Commotions 