Free Falling Fashion

I’ve always had a fleeting interest in fashion. This is not to say that I’m fashion forward. I’m anything but.

But in my elementary school days, I always had a soft spot for fashionista Stacy from the Babysitter Club book series. This can perhaps explain why I’d occasionally run around in a swimsuit and a mini-skirt or a belted over-sized, hand-painted t-shirt with tights, when I was in the 8-11 age range. After suffering a plaid flannel epidemic in my early teen years, my fashion sense calmed down into unadventurous sweaters and jeans trend which continues to this day. Still, I remain drawn to t.v. shows like Project Runway and What Not to Wear like a crow is to shiny objects.

In high school, I did a major project on the evolution of British clothing from 1066-1952. The project forced me to really look at clothing and determine why we wear what we wear (socioeconomic circumstances, style, perceived status, etc.), which, admittedly, is easier to do in the context of historical clothing than it is in this era of readily available fabric and discount fashion. It was a fun project and one that still effects my outlook on life, especially when a wonderful mess of beautiful dresses are being paraded in front of me like at Tuesday’s performance of Wicked.

To me, fashion is a fun, puzzling supplement to life. I have no time (or money) for designer labels, but I still like to ponder whether I’m more of a Dior or a Prada sort of girl. I have to admit that I don’t really understand fashion shoots. Or why models always look angry. When all is said and done, I’m kind of flunking at fashion.

For one thing, buying any sort of clothing tends to be like pulling teeth for me. I’d happily wear my current (teeny) wardrobe until starts to self-destruct before buying a new bit of clothing. When I do finally buy a new shirt, it usually comes off the clearance rack. Oh, how Meryl Strep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada would shutter!

But there’s been one fashion item I’ve never had a problem purchasing: shoes. I have more shoes than I have outfits to go with them.

So what does it mean when my main shoe purchase this autumn will probably look like this? What does it say about me, my environment, my livelihood?

Perhaps these boots are whispering: "High heels look ridiculous where you live. You wear a t-shirt to work every day. Give it up."

It’s either time to get out of the woods, or finally admit that fashion for me will forever stay in my collection of lovely coffee table fashion books.