Monday, November 24, 2008
A letter of apology
Dear leggings,
Please allow me to apologize. It seems that I, clouded by still-painful memories of a first-day-of-seventh-grade outfit that involved white Umbros, Mickey Mouse-patterned leggings, and black high-top Reeboks, allowed myself to vocally decry your return without considering your positive attributes. Yes, leggings, for all the havoc you hath wrought on the world--both from 1987-1992 and 2005-present--you do have a few positive attributes. And yet only the knowledge that one of my best friends (Bri) is an unabashed legging-aholic could make me see past your unknowable potential for harm and discover that glimmer of good. After all, if Bri is awesome, and Bri loves leggings, doesn't logic dictate that leggings must at least be a little bit awesome?
And leggings, you kind of are. For one thing, you put tights to shame. I've never understood the point of tights, really. They don't make you any warmer, and they're really freaking uncomfortable to boot. But you, leggings? You, for the most part (i.e., I'm not counting those leggings I bought for Nikki's wedding, which were weirdly constructed like tights and therefore just as uncomfortable, albeit at least warmer, than regular tights) are exceedingly comfortable. Never-want-to-take-them-off comfortable, at that (this, of course, is also where your danger lies, but we won't get into that now). And when it comes to the warmth factor, you definitely have tights beat. This weekend, I wore one of your ilk to a swing dance in an unheated 1930s ballroom, and not once did I experience a goosebump. You also are excellent to sleep in on chilly nights, as you are immune to the bunching factor that has always turned me off pajama pants.
However--and this is a big however--under no circumstances will I ever again wear you as pants or, like it really needs to be said, under white Umbro shorts. I have my limits.
Sincerely, your tentative admirer,
Clare
P.S. I still abhor Sienna Miller. I mean, there's topless cavorting with a married man, and then there's topless cavorting with a married man while wearing a twee sailor hat. I think we all know which is the worse crime.
Dear leggings,
Please allow me to apologize. It seems that I, clouded by still-painful memories of a first-day-of-seventh-grade outfit that involved white Umbros, Mickey Mouse-patterned leggings, and black high-top Reeboks, allowed myself to vocally decry your return without considering your positive attributes. Yes, leggings, for all the havoc you hath wrought on the world--both from 1987-1992 and 2005-present--you do have a few positive attributes. And yet only the knowledge that one of my best friends (Bri) is an unabashed legging-aholic could make me see past your unknowable potential for harm and discover that glimmer of good. After all, if Bri is awesome, and Bri loves leggings, doesn't logic dictate that leggings must at least be a little bit awesome?
And leggings, you kind of are. For one thing, you put tights to shame. I've never understood the point of tights, really. They don't make you any warmer, and they're really freaking uncomfortable to boot. But you, leggings? You, for the most part (i.e., I'm not counting those leggings I bought for Nikki's wedding, which were weirdly constructed like tights and therefore just as uncomfortable, albeit at least warmer, than regular tights) are exceedingly comfortable. Never-want-to-take-them-off comfortable, at that (this, of course, is also where your danger lies, but we won't get into that now). And when it comes to the warmth factor, you definitely have tights beat. This weekend, I wore one of your ilk to a swing dance in an unheated 1930s ballroom, and not once did I experience a goosebump. You also are excellent to sleep in on chilly nights, as you are immune to the bunching factor that has always turned me off pajama pants.
However--and this is a big however--under no circumstances will I ever again wear you as pants or, like it really needs to be said, under white Umbro shorts. I have my limits.
Sincerely, your tentative admirer,
Clare
P.S. I still abhor Sienna Miller. I mean, there's topless cavorting with a married man, and then there's topless cavorting with a married man while wearing a twee sailor hat. I think we all know which is the worse crime.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
I don't know how Blair Waldorf does it
For the past hour or so, I've had a searing pain spreading slowly throughout my entire jaw. I was just about to pick up the phone and make a dentist appointment (it IS about that time again anyway), when suddenly I realized what the problem was: My faux Burberry headband (which I wore as part of an outfit that included riding boots and a sweater with pearl buttons up the back; I thought I'd celebrate the downfall of the Republican party by dressing as WASPily as possible today) was digging into my head in such a way that it was putting an inordinate amount of pressure on my jaw. As soon as I removed the headband, the pain went away. If this is what happens every time one wears a headband, no wonder Blair Waldorf is so atrociously bitchy all the time.
For the past hour or so, I've had a searing pain spreading slowly throughout my entire jaw. I was just about to pick up the phone and make a dentist appointment (it IS about that time again anyway), when suddenly I realized what the problem was: My faux Burberry headband (which I wore as part of an outfit that included riding boots and a sweater with pearl buttons up the back; I thought I'd celebrate the downfall of the Republican party by dressing as WASPily as possible today) was digging into my head in such a way that it was putting an inordinate amount of pressure on my jaw. As soon as I removed the headband, the pain went away. If this is what happens every time one wears a headband, no wonder Blair Waldorf is so atrociously bitchy all the time.
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