Saturday, August 14, 2010

Fascinatin' Rhythm

I'm on my way to an out-of-town wedding tomorrow. It's a light summer as I only have three total, and none of them mine. What follows is a non-exhaustive list of the questions that came to mind tonight while standing, motionless, for 52 minutes in front of my double closet...

-who will be there and what have I not been 'seen in' by said attendees? (mental rundown of recent social events and corresponding evidence in the form of Facebook photos, etc.)

-how many layers of Spanx would make this jersey dress wearable? (follow-up: is the Spanx to Degrees Celsius ratio within normal human tolerance?)

-is this DVF wrap sufficiently low-cut to offend anyone during the daytime ceremonies? (follow-up: what is the demographic makeup of the guest list? [ie: number of buttoned up old biddies compared to frat boys friends still suffering severe Peter Pan Syndrome])

-does an invite that says "field wedding" imply the need for galoshes and one's own toilet paper roll, for when the porta-potty supply inevitably dwindles? We're gunna need a bigger bag.

-how badly will Westjet scrunch, bruise, and otherwise maim my favorite corset belt in transit? (follow-up: if I stay up late tonight with a hammer and screwdriver will I be able to punch an extra set of holes past the factory-made notches to allow for buffet binging and excessive drinking?)

It is the antithesis of the get-up-and-go rumpled chic that is my wheelhouse. Wedding attire is the ultimate in planned dressing, like a formulaic crime caper. The protagonist first fantasizes, then conceptualizes the scheme into a realm of tenuous reality, assembles a team, and ultimately executes the precise plan. I could have stood in front of that closet for hours, vacillating between self-effacing nay saying and self-aggrandizing affirmations (sample internal monologue: "I have arm waddle, but I DO look good in purple!")
Now, I get a terrific sense of satisfaction by travelling lightly. I aim to be a study in simple sophistication, well-edited elegance. My suitcase must be clown-car-like, from which I produce an endless stream of elegant combinations for the duration of the trip.

What eventually saved my evening, and a lot of suitcase space to boot... the fascinator. A simple, wrinkle-resistant cocktail frock is elevated with just a few feathers and a little netting, perched rakishly en tete. It's cool and unconventional (see also: statement necklaces, colored stockings, opera gloves, armfuls of bangles). The fascinator packs a lotta style for one's buck (in this case buck = squishing in suitcase, schlepping on planes and trains, wearing ALL bloody DAY from the "I do"s to the chicken dance).

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