The moment those four simple (but hardly insignificant) words slipped from my Rogue Coco painted lips, I knew something had changed. Arian's wide ice blue eyes were suddenly squeezed down into narrow slits. Our bee-eff-eff-ship had always been turbulent but that squint said to prepare for an emergency crash landing. She clicked her tongue as I tried to pass by the awkward moment by digging around in my
micro leather box bag. We had always participated as a 'we'. We didn't apply for life-changing jobs without the others approval or awareness. We didn't accept said job before discussing, especially one in a whole new city. We certainly didn't already have three twill leather travel bags waiting in the lobby, all set to go. The competition between the well-dressed coalition remained constant but one of us had to make a move. This job was much more important than any sixth-grade pact made over Lollipop rings and Lisa Frank rainbow kitten folders. This was a push forward. Ariana collected her belongings and clicked a few feet away in her
vintage mules. She tucked a loose strand of platinum Olsen waves behind her pointed ears and whispered a "Good luck." That sounded a lot like, "Fuck you."
The super-wide leg cropped trouser is my favorite silhouette du jour (skinny jeans, I'll come back for you later). I wore a pair out to a late dinner this past weekend, had too many French Blondes, got up too quickly, caught my
heel between cobblestone cracks and went stumbling toward a platter of Gulf oysters. Here's a fashion fact: wide-legs are dangerous. And I can tell you right here and now that there is no such thing as insurance compensation or protection for 'injury by
flared Margielas'. The solution? Walk like Clint Eastwood in Rawhide, never run, don't cross your legs at the ankle, don't sit on barstools and avoid stairs for as long as you can. Good luck.
In the South, being a woman over 20 who is childless and unmarried is like being a neutered dog at a puppy mill: ie I may as well be dead. Back home, I'm definitely not viewed as someone who has smartly decided to put her own over exaggerated day dreams of success before marriage. I am not a woman living the sticky-kid-less dream -- oh, no. I'm an ancient, moth-eaten, senior citizen who chose new shoes over happiness. Going back to that town to see my current boyfriend can be very, very difficult, especially when I'm around his meridional family members. But to hell with the small town inhabitants if they think I'm a lesbian for wearing all black during the summer, screw them for scoffing at my
cut-out knot-front jumpsuit and who says calling my dog my son is wrong? I will always remember what it's like to get out of the car in southern suburbia sporting
high-rise linen trousers with people staring and thinking I'm just a little 'off'. Ladies: pop on some Saint Laurent, say goodbye to your old friends over a glass of pink grapefruit vodka and move to the city. I promise it'll be over soon.
