Then I Put A Colander On My Head

In honor of the New Media Fashion Brunch tomorrow, I thought I should post one of my favorite articles: Tanya Gold's "Why I Hate Fashion."  My friend Elizabeth tweeted it a while back, and reading the comic lines in it is as fabulous as finding a vintage 1960's medallion print dress at Buffalo Exchange for $13, (which I've done).  But reading this article is more like finding thirty of them.  For $5.

"Surely I love shoes, the icons that Carrie Bradshaw worshiped instead of a god? No? I must be ill. Weep for me in my giant knickers. I am outcast."
Gold explains why fashion "died" for her, and how that death has brought her peace in her life.  She raises interesting points about how fun it can seem to buy something pretty, bring it home in a fancy bag, and lay it out on the bed only to discover that whatever mystique the item held in the store has some how faded away between now and then.  She also explains how fashion can't "fix" her, and essentially, she doesn't want to exist in a state of needing to be "fixed." 

I don't blame her.  Wanting to collect pretty clothes is just as infectious as wanting to collect tea spoons or glass telephone insulators (I have one).  The problem with clothes collecting is that the object of display is yourself - and making oneself presentable everyday can be an occasion of stress.  Not that I've ever had a melt down over what to wear, changed my clothes five times, or been late to work because I can't decide if I like a pair of trousers on a particular day.  Ok, maybe I have, and maybe I need help. 

But fashion, like whittling, is a hobby.  And I like my hobby.  I have other hobbies - writing this blog, strumming guitars, starting a glass telephone insulator collection.  Lennon likes to play World of Warcraft, (NERD!).  To each their own. 

In between all of Gold's funny quips, she does bring up the sad story of sixteen year old Megan Moore who was killed by a train when she slipped and fell in her high heeled shoes on a station platform.

Megan has glamorous predecessors - Lady Randolph Churchill also experienced death by high heeled shoe when a broken ankle caused by a pair led to gangrene and a botched amputation, and Isadora Duncan was famously strangled by her silk scarf when it caught in a car's tire. 

Since we'll be walking a long way tomorrow, I think I'll wear my sensible flats, and maybe avoid superfluous length in accessories. 

(and just FYI - I hold playing World of Warcraft as the standard by which I judge all of my own insane obsessions to be normal.  Sorry, honey).