I’ll admit: I’ve never been a Fashionista. I come by it honestly.
When Jordache jeans (with their distinctive script label) were popular in the 80s, my mom found a batch of fabric labels that used the same font to spell, “Who Gives A Shit” and stitched them on her own pants. (Or actually, maybe my dad did that – since he’s the one who taught me to sew.)
The highlight of my middle school fashion was a t-shirt featuring a jogger running past a gas station with the caption, “Passing Gas.”
And as a young professional sporting what I thought was a very chic, all-brown suit, I had my confidence shaken when one of the guys on my team (now a good friend) casually remarked that he knew it was going to be a bad day for everyone when I showed up wearing, “The Turd Suit.”
Correct. Apparently all of my fashion influences come from Uranus.
So it should come as no surprise that I still rarely nail my wardrobe. This is fresh on my mind because every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror today, I would shake my head and think, “The Legend of Bagger Vance.” Or jump and think someone had let a man from the 1920’s into the bathroom.
If you’re not familiar with Bagger Vance, I’m talking about a golf movie set way back in the early 20th century. The people in it dressed like this:
Yes. Something about my outfit – knickers and an Izod shirt – looked like I should be talking tee times with a bag slung over my shoulder. So I posted something to that effect on Facebook.
And almost immediately, people wanted photos. Partly because they’re bored with their jobs, but also because everyone loves witnessing a fashion disaster. And also because my friends are kind of assholes. In a good way.
I asked one of my co-workers to snap my photo. Since Los Angeles is super-fashionable, I thought I’d start by seeking out the harshest criticism first, so I sent the photo to my friend Sharon, who works in our LA office. But she politely pointed out that golfers do not wear high heels, that my pants were capris not knickers, and that I didn’t have a golf cap on, so I needed to stop beating myself up.
I felt good for a few minutes, glowing from her endorsement of my fashion, until I trekked to the bathroom. And almost screamed to find a man in there. Then realized it was me. And then I realized that the photo I sent Sharon was deceptive: it was dimly lit and framed by an office, so it might be hard to make the Bagger Vance connection.
About this time I remembered that my sister (who loves Photoshop) was stationed Up North (which means north of Ann Arbor, Michigan) for the week, probably
relaxing since she left her kids at home bored out of her mind. So I sent her the photo and asked her if she could feel the Bagger Vance vibe I was rockin’.
This is what she sent back:
I am pretty sure I might have just started a fashion revolution. FORE!