I've Tried Yoga But I Find Stress Less Boring

These past couple weeks I've been feeling like a slowly unraveling sweater. And not something in a fine cashmere knit by Dolce and Gabbana, either. Or even a serviceable merino wool by J. Crew. No. More like something of a dubiously synthetic fabric that I once nicked from my boyfriend's stash of Chess King pullovers on a stormy winter's night in 1987 pre a post-finals pub crawl because:

A. I was too college student skint to own a proper coat.

B. I believed that wearing my boyfriend's clothing was a totally cool way to, like, subtly but undeniably broadcast the fact of our way bitchin' union, only without the expense of a friendship ring or the pain of a tattoo. 

Only, instead of marking us as a couple, it marked me as a total dork, never mind the tights and cropped Pat Benatar boots to go with.

Anyway.

I'll spare you the gory details about my recent stress except to say that other than parent/child relationships, I don't believe that blood ties should necessarily trump consciously chosen relationships, especially when those ties are bound with a bat shit crazy dynamic. 

Luckily, I do have my limits. I may beat my head against the wall until it bruises, but when I start seeing skull, when I no longer have control over what I am able to give and what someone sucks out of me without permission, when the crisp line that separates my calm interior from the whirlwind exterior devolves into a murky watercolor wash, that's when I step off the bat shit crazy train.

All the better to shake my head at someone who has obviously chosen to ride it to the very end of the line:


What. The. Fork.

But not the only example of the truly, truly awful fashion being paraded around at this year's Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute fundraiser. Each year, the creme de la creme of the fashion and celebrity world gather together to raise money for the Institute but only end up proving in increasingly outlandish ways that money may make the world go 'round but it can't buy good taste. 

Irony much? 

Mais, oui!

Especially when it comes to perennial event hostess, Anna Wintour, editor in chief of American Vogue magazine. Now, this is a woman who has become so universally disliked that if the mental arrows that are shot her way on a regular basis suddenly manifested as real, she'd drop like a lacerated Spartan, only without the fab six pack abs and way cool lighting. "Fashionistas! Today I die without my Spanx!"

So you'd think she'd be extra, extra careful not to draw any more negative attention to herself, right? 


Uh. Apparently, in a galaxy far, far way? Princess Leia has decided to try her hand at fashion design.

That was last year. This year, Anna stuck closer to home. Well, to Chanel. But I'll be damned if I can figure out what's going on here. Me no speaky Bat Shit Crazy Dress Design, either.


You know what this reminds me of? One of those pastel colored, faux Swiss Chalet-style homes you find in certain areas of Middle America suburbia. The ones with window frames that mimic peaked roofs and eaves made from long strips of loopy, scallop-shaped wooden cutouts, resulting in a kind of creepy dollhouse come to adult-sized life. At any moment now, this photo is going to start yodeling.

At least she didn't pull a Scarlett O'Hara and make her dress out of the hotel drapes, like these two bims. 

And just when I was beginning to like Vicky B., too. But Kate? Never. Seems like every photo I see of her out and about, regardless of how up or down she's dressed, she still manages to look like she needs a good wash. 

But the worst offender?

Would it be tacky of me to snag this opportunity to make what I know, I know, is a very un-P.C. comment about Chris Brown slapping even the fashion sense outta the girl? Yes? No? Okay, how about: Rihanna, honey, snap to the fact that you're beautiful enough to break flash bulbs, date non-psychotic men, and dress like a girl rather than prom date to Ronald McDonald gone goth.