Those of you who don’t know PeeVee, raise your hands! Now can slap yourself with that very same hand! If you haven’t read her blog Confessions of The chocolate obsessed you are missing out on A LOT. The Queen of short stories without a doubt, every piece of semi-fiction and fiction that she writes transports you to an entirely different world. Her witty charm, her ability of poking fun at herself and yet seem extremely cute and adorable, the way every post she writes just comes alive, are just some of the best things about her! One of my cherished blogger friends, one of the awesome-est writers that I know – Peevee (a.k.a Priyanka) from Confessions of the chocolate obsessed!
I am a fashion disaster.
Now that we have established that, I know you’re wondering why the hell Chandana has let me loose on her pretty, nice, organized, sensible blog? Well, every dog has its day na, and today’s mine. So HAH!
(Note: No, not crazy.
Ok FAIYYN maybe just a little bit).
Anyway, being a fashion disaster is an art in itself, one that has to be carefully cultivated over the formative years, honed during teenage and perfected by the time you reach adult. And finally come to terms with the fact that nothing you wear will EVER look
sassy, sexy, cute, chic, awesome, funky, amazing perfect. Never. Ever.
Why? Because God made you a girl and forgot to include the gene that gives you the ability to put together a decent outfit. That’s why.
You say, ‘aww, no darling, you look just fine.’
I say (like I told someone in my class), ‘if you see me well-dressed, it is because somebody else did the picking and they are somebody else’s clothes.’
Now you might want proof. Even if you don’t, I insist.
1) NONE of my clothes fit. And when I say none, I mean n-o-n-e, none. And this is not some random girl complaining about ‘having nothing to wear’. This is actual problem of life.
Every piece of clothing I own is either too big, so big that it flaps around me like Batman’s cape.
Or too tight. So tight that I envy corsets. So tight that I come home, lock myself in my room, tear the dress off and then let out the whoosh of air that I had been holding till then.
So basically, I’m an adult (at least in size) in this enormously superficial world who just fails to look good on every single occasion.
Doesn’t help in the least bit that I don’t know what has to be worn where and hence it’s completely normal in PeeVeedom to go to class in an elaborate Anarkali set and go for a wedding in jeans and kurta.
2) My mother. I love her, I really do. And she has an awesome dress sense. Only problem? The ‘sense’ got stuck in the late ‘80’s.
Don’t get me wrong, the woman looks fabulous when she gets dressed up, so much so that roadside romeos prefer gawking at her rather than (sniff) me. But when she asks a 16 year old (me) to wear a ruffled shirt that has long tails to tie at the waist a la 80’s Tamil villians with lungi and bright yellow transparent vests, it just gives ‘embarrassment’ whole new proportions.
3) I have this
love hate affair with white. Every single time I wear anything remotely white, I manage to ruin it for life.
Eg 1: School uniform kurta, I had three sets. I manage to ruin all three within six months of getting them stitched by consistently dropping my lunch on them every single afternoon. No kidding. It was either a bit of the achaar or my friend’s aloo masala or the rasam-kootu thingy that my other friend used to bring. If I forgot to drop something during the lunch hour, no worries, the soya manchurian from the canteen (during the break) would do the trick.
And so forth, my luck with white continued in the most clichéd of manners with everything from crow poop to sitting on the muddiest bit of benches giving me unparalled distinction in ruining whites.
Since 1990 and still trying…
4) Do you know how I learnt to wear heels? Right out of school, throughout which I’d worn school shoes, flats and sneakers, I went out and celebrated my ‘freedom’ with a pair of three and a half inch pumps. I was SO proud of them that night that I polished and buffed them up to shiny shine, sashayed down my hallway a few times, spent three hours admiring my legs in them in front of the full-length mirror wearing the shortest skirt I could find. Morning came and I had movie plans with friends. I donned my brand new pumps and walked confidently down the walkway before crumpling down in an undignified heap right outside my house.
Unable to get up with a twisted ankle.
Grandpa saw the copter going down, hauled me up with a kindly smile which did nothing to soothe my ruffled feathers and deposited me on the couch where I spent the next three days recuperating.
And the third day, I wear the pumps and go out. Again. This time I get to the theatre before nose-diving.
Another three days on the couch.
A week later, I go out with, wait for it, THE VERY SAME PUMPS. This time I almost make it home.
YET another three days on the couch.
And it went on for another three years before I actually could walk in those pumps without people clamping their arms to my waist to prevent me from hitting the pavement.
But hey, I made progress.
Note: It’s a wonder how I didn’t cause lasting damage to my legs and ankle.
Note II: I think it was an OCD.
5) My tailor is the awesome-st thing since sliced bread. Why? He thinks I am a square-shaped organism. Why? Because all the suits I get stitched by him make me look like one. He manages to take the most beautiful of materials and cloth bits I get him and turn it into a perfectly square, perfectly crappy churidhar that I will never wear in my life.
So much so that at one point I actually had started believing that I looked like that, like a damn square. He should be sued for the emotional and psychological damage
And if you even say a peep about your amazing tailor, I WILL find him and feed him to the turtles.
So at one point, I just threw in the towel, I don’t care anymore what I wear for I have resigned to the fact that I will never have a perfect dress day. I learnt over time that fashionable or not, always wear something that I’m confident in. For I might never be a fashion icon nor be gushed over for what I wore but I’ll always be remembered for who I am. And this is not sour grapes talking. Really 😀
But that said, even women have commented on how sexy my legs are and how hot they look in skirts and pumps. So maybe I’m not a complete waste of fashion space after all ;P
Thank you Chandana for being so patient. And I’m SO sorry about the delay.