GET YOUR CHIC TOGETHER
Updated: Nov 21, 2018
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Fashion. Is it really just about the clothes? Or the way we feel while outfitted in chic attire?
How can fashion magically transform a dreary day into spectacular just by a pair of shoes?
What is it about our confidence that is attached to the way we feel while adorning our je suis fabuleuse ensembles?
Fashion avengers in our own rite, chic is our sword of confidence. And confidence, our pouvoir feminin, the feminine power in which everything flows.
Forgetting this cardinal rule, I dressed this morning with nothing but comfort in mind. Initially choosing my pair of Audrey Hepburn slim-fit black jeans, my determination to squeeze my post-Christmas muffin top into a size quite obviously belonging to last year, I accepted the challenge.
Preparing myself with two rapid breaths I positioned myself into the birthing position and squeezed. Clearly, these pants were stubborn, and they weren’t budging.
Waving my white flag of surrender I conceded to elastic waist band parachute pants (ask no further questions) and a nondescript top to match.
I broke the creed. Comfort took precedent over style. My vogue degenerated to vague. Admittedly, my outfit had no style, void of intrigue. Standing in front of the mirror, I ignored a judgment from Simon Cowell, and accepted an overly generous and undeserved 7 out of 10 from Paula.
I left the house, clearly stripped of avenger status with an outfit nothing less than boring. Subconsciously my self esteemed was shattered. I committed fashion faux pas- a woman's fatal enemy of the first falling domino in losing all feminine ability to attract.
Unbeknownst to me, until I rectified my crime of fugly, (the embarrassing combination of fat/ugly) my day was doomed to failure.
Beginning my morning moseying over to a local coffee shop, with a piping hot breve latte in hand, I plopped down in my seat to start work with a staunch determination to write. Yet, nothing. Complete writer’s block. No creative flow- absolute flatline. My task was completely hopeless.
What was seemingly natural to me became difficult. Getting up for a refill, assuming it was merely lack of caffeine, I caught my reflection in the mirror and detected my archenemy: the parachute pants. Worse yet, my blasé top- kryptonite to a true fashion avenger.
How could I let my lazy overrule my pride? I declared war. What I needed was a shopping spree of revenge.
Rather than eating my feelings, I spent them. Bloomingdales, Zara, and Neiman Marcus became my allies. Though signing my signature on receipts was the only writing I was doing, I was experiencing a Wonder Woman moment regaining my power.
Swapping my want-to-be chic poser attire for the real McCoy- Stella McCarthy, I continued my quest until even Simon would have given me a standing ovation.
Transforming from geek to chic
I returned to the scene of the crime, my forlorn cafe, to return to writing. Yet, not without one last piece to my ensemble. A Pair of Andy Warhol non-prescriptive tortoise shell reading glasses, the finishing touch to my fashion metamorphoses. Indeed, the cherry on top to my newfound flair du jour.
Striding up to the counter, I lowered my Andy Warhol’s intentionally peering over the rims, “I’ll take a latte. Make that a chai latte,” I said in a Clint Eastwood, make my day voice. Waiting for my much deserved cup of brew, I gloated in the mirror. Putting my hands in my pockets, and clicking my heels like Dorthy in her famed red shoes, I was going back to Kansas.
I had arrived, overcoming the Fashion Witch of Fugly.
Admiring my acquisitions, I had to admit I was stunning. Decked out in top designer garb, my mood, my confidence, my true inner chi emerged. I was back! Taking out my pen, as an avenger pulls out a sword, creativity started to flow like an undammed waterway.
I exuded power only known to the upper echelon of authentic panache.
From once defeated I was now victorious.
Making a pact to myself and all my feminine allies, would I never again fall to fashion failure. Never again would I trade in hot for not. Never again would I try to do life without my sass on. From now on I vowed to…
Get my chic together!
Chloe Hamilton contributing freelance writer/ The Hamilton Post Magazine
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