A Little Song, a Little Dance, a Little Solstice Down Your Pants
It’s the solstice today, I do believe, although my calendar says it occurred at 6:46 A.M. GMT, so maybe that was actually yesterday here in the PST/PDT. I’m a bit too braindead to do the calculations.
Yesterday evening, because it was somewhere in the solstice zone, I decided that it would be a good idea to take advantage of all the daylight and walk down to a Stitch ‘n’ Bitch gathering at a newish cafe and accomplish several (admittedly modest) goals: A) get some exercise; B) find out if a four-mile walk in new sandals would leave my feet blistered and raw; C) make some progress on my long-neglected afghan; D) eat a tempting dessert; and E) meet some new people.
I would say I was fairly successful in meeting all my goals, most notably the eating-a-tempting-dessert goal, which I accomplished with almost professional finesse. I’m also very pleased to report that my feet were not bloody by the time I got to the cafe. I’m quite excited about this breakthrough, because never before in my life have I been able to walk in sandals without my feet turning to pulp. This means I can now proceed with yet another modest goal: wearing more skirts and sundresses.
The skirts and the sundresses are a bit of a compromise, though. What I’d really like to have the opportunity to wear is a posh frock like this or this. Posh frocks like these are just the last word in high glamour. Plus--big butt? Pooky tummy? Chubby thighs? Stubby legs? Thick ankles? They are all discreetly hidden beneath the enormous bouffant New Look skirt. And that’s the way it should be. If posh frocks like these were still the norm, poxy control-top pantyhose need never have been invented.
I’ve worn exactly one posh frock in my entire life,* and it really wasn’t that nice (or that posh). Very clingy, cut in such a way that it was impossible to wear any kind of a bra—not even one of those every-which-way-but-loose convertible bras, and so narrow in the skirt I couldn’t walk—I had to mince. Not a positive posh frock experience. I really wish the New Look would come back and that some occasion would arise in which I would need to acquire the poshest of all posh frocks. I know it’s very girly, and in general I am not the most girly of girls, but I do want to have the chance to wear a posh frock before I die.
*I’m not counting a hot-pink bridesmaid dress with puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline that I was once forced to wear. In my book that qualifies as a ticky-tacky frock. From Hell.
Yesterday evening, because it was somewhere in the solstice zone, I decided that it would be a good idea to take advantage of all the daylight and walk down to a Stitch ‘n’ Bitch gathering at a newish cafe and accomplish several (admittedly modest) goals: A) get some exercise; B) find out if a four-mile walk in new sandals would leave my feet blistered and raw; C) make some progress on my long-neglected afghan; D) eat a tempting dessert; and E) meet some new people.
I would say I was fairly successful in meeting all my goals, most notably the eating-a-tempting-dessert goal, which I accomplished with almost professional finesse. I’m also very pleased to report that my feet were not bloody by the time I got to the cafe. I’m quite excited about this breakthrough, because never before in my life have I been able to walk in sandals without my feet turning to pulp. This means I can now proceed with yet another modest goal: wearing more skirts and sundresses.
The skirts and the sundresses are a bit of a compromise, though. What I’d really like to have the opportunity to wear is a posh frock like this or this. Posh frocks like these are just the last word in high glamour. Plus--big butt? Pooky tummy? Chubby thighs? Stubby legs? Thick ankles? They are all discreetly hidden beneath the enormous bouffant New Look skirt. And that’s the way it should be. If posh frocks like these were still the norm, poxy control-top pantyhose need never have been invented.
I’ve worn exactly one posh frock in my entire life,* and it really wasn’t that nice (or that posh). Very clingy, cut in such a way that it was impossible to wear any kind of a bra—not even one of those every-which-way-but-loose convertible bras, and so narrow in the skirt I couldn’t walk—I had to mince. Not a positive posh frock experience. I really wish the New Look would come back and that some occasion would arise in which I would need to acquire the poshest of all posh frocks. I know it’s very girly, and in general I am not the most girly of girls, but I do want to have the chance to wear a posh frock before I die.
*I’m not counting a hot-pink bridesmaid dress with puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline that I was once forced to wear. In my book that qualifies as a ticky-tacky frock. From Hell.
posted by Rozanne at 8:32 PM
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