(In)appropriate Attire, Part I

I would like to point out that when Hattie told me yesterday's tale of awks it was still Tuesday and she was explaining her dilemma to me as we drove crosstown to trivia. Since the actual meeting hadn't happened yet she was mildly/obsessively/amazingly freaking out about what to say to the waiter in order to avoid his pity and scorn, and of course I was peeing my pants laughing, because that's the kind of best friend I am (the kind who takes pleasure in your misery and soils your car.) Needless to say we missed the turnoff and had to cross the park 30 blocks too far north and then drove in a circle. This has nothing to do with today's post, but I think it improves the potency of yesterday's immeasurably. And you're welcome.

Okay let's get down to brass tacks. Those of you who know me well know that I possess a large and diverse wardrobe. Oftentimes I will put together a (clearly amazing) ensemble, ready to accept the awe and praise of my peers, only to hear something along the lines of: "Wow. That looks...great on you." For those amateur subtexters out there, that translates roughly to: "I can't believe you're going to go out in public like that, and I'm just glad that I'm not being asked to wear it."

HOWEVER, even I have my limits, and for the purposes of this discussion those limits are bounded by Thigh Street and Asscrack Avenue. What I am saying is this: it is inappropriate for you to leave your house wearing a piece of fabric around your waist that could be generously described as a wide belt.

Now I recognize that this is a free country, and everybody is free to wear whatever they choose whenever they choose to wear it blah blah first amendment blah blah otherwise the terrorists win blahitty blah. And I will admit that I feel the TWEENSIEST TWINGE of guilt when I find myself about to go full Tyra on some poor skinny bitch in the middle of Herald Square, kind of like how I feel when I tell my grandmother I totally didn't get her message otherwise I would've TOTALLY called her back right away to talk about last night's canasta tournament, and honestly these cellphones are just so goshdarned unreliable! But. But.

The thing is, my pathetic attempt at a moral conscience (and not embarrassing myself in public) is totally and utterly quashed when the commuting public decides to mount a guerrilla attack on my psyche. When I am getting on the subway to go home after a hard day's work of blogging, reading the newspaper, and writing witty emails, all bets are off when my weary eyes are suddenly and viciously subjected to this.

Aside from the obvious risks of hypothermia and inadvertent YouTube infamy that these ladies and their ilk are incurring, and I believe they are many and varied, there is one far graver danger in play: the very real possibility that I will claw my eyeballs out in Oedipal despair at the sight of one of these fashion molesters, which lets be honest, is not going to be a happy situation for either party. Because once the eyes go, I am liable to stumble about like some re-enervated frankenhare and lay waste to everything that lies in my path in a vain attempt to cleanse the image of skank crotch and/or cheeks from my diseased soul. And let me tell you right now, no one wants that to go down on the uptown 2/3.

I don't really understand how this trend came to be. I am all for the liberation of women, and the right to bare arms and legs and midriffs and whateva, and I get that we live in a hypersexualized day and age. All I am asking, ladies, is that you cover yourself up enough that innocent passersby (=me) aren't forced to play daily games of Peek-A-Boo-Genitals. Is that so much to ask? I honestly think not. If I can drag myself out of bed put on pantyhose AND a skirt in the morning, you can put on one whole item of clothing.

Now prehaps you're saying to yourself, 'well just because you don't like it doesn't mean NO ONE does. Clearly these women aren't FOR YOU.' And to that I say, BIG LOAD OF CRAP. The intimate-are-now-outimates look MIGHT look good on point oh oh oh oh one percent of women out there, but it is a slippery slope you are on that leads to nowhere but a black pit of despair. Because for every skinny bitch two tube topping it out there providing wet dream material for the horny masses, I GUARANTEE you that 100 of these fine ladies are created, giving the rest of us nightmares.