I saw a woman today dressed in a Big-Bird yellow fuzzy fleece unitard. (Can't spell "unitard" without "tard." Remember that the next time you want to wear your unitard out of the house.) It was embellished with black leather trim and pockets. She was pulling a little dog in a rolling suitcase.
Upon further inspection, "she" might have been a dude.
This was the second most notable outfit I saw today. The top honor goes to a young woman sporting a left torso wrapped in gauze, as though she had been stabbed within the fortnight. The great part was, she was still rocking her Puerto Rico halter top. Her boyfriend/common law husband escorting her overcompensated on fabric and coordinated on the national pride issue. He took to the street in a knee-length homemade T-shirt that said in marker "Kiss my Spanish ass."
As a person who struggles with low-rise jeans, I admire the people of all nationalities in this city who look in the mirror every morning and think, "I'm not going to let this extra 30 pounds/baby in a stroller/recent stab wound stop me from showing all my business to the world."
I salute you ladies, if for no other reason than you make the rest of us look better.
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1 comment:
Every time I come here to read your musings, I crack right up. You have quite the way with words.
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