My Fashion Boo-Boo

I blame it on Urban.

Last week, they ran a story on local women's lack of style when it came to fashion, wearing a uniform of low-rise jeans and flesh-baring top. I thought to myself, no way am I going to identity myself as part of the Fashion Forsaken! (Because yes, I am a fan of the thrown-together jeans-and-tee look.)

But just look what I got myself into (and I apologise for the hastily-taken, artless shot):

All I wanted to do was add some class and pizazz to the outfit. Hence, the choice of stocking-ed legs. By the end of the day, I realised that, somewhere between the knees and the thighs, it had gone to seed. My dress was too forlornly un-ironed out. Dress and stockings alone, with luck from a pair of well-chosen shoes, may have looked ok though, as this photo (gingerly) implies:

- Maybe a pair of scruffy, tongue'd Converses would've done the trick, instead of my smart Adidas. -

In a toilet, two schoolgirls were giggingly checking me out, knee downwards. I noticed, and told them: Yeah, I know, it's a bit weird, but it's ok! (ie. I'm ok with that. My grasp of the language chose to fail me there and then.)

They were a little taken aback, but one of the girls politely countered, no, it was your shoes we were looking at.

And willingly, I believed. Aw, the girls liked my shoes. I even thanked them. Took me a few hours to realise that they just probably said that to avoid a confrontation with any pointy reckonings I might have on me right then. (Lucky for them, I didn't: Swisscard was at home because the bag I carried out with me was too small to fit it in.)

And later, while out with Barry (you first heard of him in this entry) and crossing the road, he bent towards me and whispered, "Two girls are talking about you." (Read: your darned hosiery.) And true enough, I could hear two garrulous women in the background, yakking away loudly. But I couldn't really make out what they were saying, nor was I really in the mood to be inclined towards so doing, so I waved my hand laconically and said "Ah, it's ok la."

Then I remembered what the incident with the schoolgirls, and so I asked Barry to point the ladies out to me. Which he did, but it also occurred to me that I really couldn't do anything about it. Nor was there a need to. I have the right to wear whatever I want, and they are free to comment on it. Sparingly.

But Barry's conservatism rubbed off on me, and as the night wore on an itching desire to roll off my pantyhose grew stronger with each additional weird stare I got. However, I was determined to walk home in them. Unfortunately, I also began strangely compelled to check myself out at every reflective surface I walked past. Which was why I made up my mind to hop into the most convenient private space there was and take the shots you peered over above, unbeknownst to my companion.

Oh, and I also tried on a couple of dresses by the by. The first I did not photograph in, because the chest I did not know I had (aided by Triumph) was popping out in too many places. The second fit well on top, but was too freaking tight on my child-bearing hips.

Nonetheless, after the private photoshoot, I felt at more peace with my Adventure in Fashion, boo-boo or no boo-boo. Pappy and Sis were also encouraging when I got home and mentioned my Day of the Raised Eyebrows. The latter told me I should just let people stare if they wanted, because I looked fine, while the former deadpanned: "Tell them you're afraid of getting mosquito bites." What a gem.