So remember that whole controversy surrounding “the Blogger” dress by Modcloth? The one that looked like a frumpy sack or hospital gown (that actually covered the bum)? The one that infuriated the blogosphere of fashion bloggettes world-wide, who fumed and foamed at the mouth, offended at the suggestion that – gasp! – they could be portrayed fashioning posts in something less than Jak and Jil worthy? “The Editor” dress (your standard LBD), they said, was far more appropriate.
I mean it’s fugly to say the least. That I cannot deny. Perhaps I’m biased because I don’t carry grandma-chic very well (I’m sure some blogger could whip up some ensemble including Rodarte tights and creepers and have it be sartorial worthy).
Not that I’m any better, though. As much as I’d love to say that I type away furiously with freshly painted nails (actually true, currently sporting Revlon’s Minted as an ode to the spring-y weather because I’m borderline OCD with my nails) in a RM by Roland Mouret number, legs crossed to show off a pair of shiny, 4.5-inch patent pumps. Perhaps in a café or some public setting I’d whip up something more, uh,chic. Ankle boots, black skinnies, blouse or a tank and leather jacket. Nothing too extravagant or snap-worthy.
But most of my writing is done cross-legged on my bed. It’s not that glamorous, I promise you. Bangs clipped back with the slightest bouffant in an attempt to make sophisticated the ponytail sprouting from the top of my head. Little tanks and yoga pats are my uniform. Did you expect something more fabulous? I apologize. At least I’d look positively adorable running straight to the gym or outside for my own rendition of bikram yoga. Either way, it’s still one step up from the frumpy hospital gown.
Victoria’s Secret – no surprise there – makes the perfect little outfits for my blogging sessions. This one is a close approximation of what I typically throw on:
So yes. Oui, I confess. I have a fashion blog, writing about the importance of style as I sit cross-legged in
gym yoga/dance clothes. It’s the epitome of chic and hypocrisy, is it not? After all, I’m only human.
. . .