Stuck

So, I know this blog is supposed to be about writing and books and being literary and all that junk. But today, I digress. I digress into a topic I have absolutely no authority on: style.

I have no style. I mean, I have a style. But I don’t have what people call style. I don’t think I need to be on What Not To Wear but you’re not going to find me on Page Six or on a red carpet any time soon. I am obsessed with fashion eras I was never born in and therefore have no capacity to replicate.

This became all too apparent today when I walked into a small shop in Brooklyn absolutely determined to Madmen Myself. It was very simple. I wanted to look like Joan Holloway.

I mean, WHO IS THIS WOMAN? She is absolutely fabulous. I want to pull a Serena Williams and shout expletives at unsuspecting line judges about how !%$#& FABULOUS this woman is. I can’t handle it.
But it turns out, I can’t look like Joan Holloway. Apparently, you have to have breasts. And hips. And things like curves. I tried on 8 (count em!) EIGHT Joan Holloway dresses and I looked like doo.

I sulked all the way home. And on my way, I began to think. What is wrong with me? I was not sulking because I couldn’t look like the latest runway model, I was sulking because I was not alive in 1960. So, I began to think about what consider stylish.

Here’s my list of things that are fabulous.

Audrey Hepburn. If someone would bring back cigarette holders, I’d be forever grateful.

Joni Mitchell. This photo doesn’t quite depict it, but apparently she wore short skirts a lot. I think that’s cute. I am trying to grow my hair this long, blonde, and straight. And it’s completely ridiculous that I am attempting this considering my hair is brown, frizzy, and wavy. I would start my bangs in the middle of my head if I could, but that’s also completely ridiculous so I won’t.

Anything from The Sound of Music. I would wear hand-me-downs from a convent. I would wear the blue dress that brings out my eyes for the Captain. And I would wear things that are very drab and pilly while avoiding Nazis. Perhaps most disturbingly, this also means that I would have no problem wearing clothes made out of old curtains.

And of course, my style icon, Mary Richards of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. She is the be all and end all of what I consider fabulous. Like Mary taking on Minneapolis as an Associate Producer, I, too, took on the Big Apple with the same title. Like Mary, I knitted a striped hat with a pom pom and thought I might try and replicate her famous hat-throwing gesture. Like Mary, I don’t quite have the chest to fill out a Joan Holloway dress, but it’s ok! Because I can (in theory) wear this:

So, it’s staggering. My style icons are an array of half fictional women and austrians all running around looking good well before my birth year. I’m not even going to get into empire waist dresses in Regency England. It’s just too depressing. When it comes to style, I’m simply stuck.

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