Fuggings

Sometimes, you tap out.

Sometimes, you feel like you’ve said all you can say about leggings. And yet people persist on dragging them back into the fashion spotlight anyway.

And you think maybe you’re fresh out of things to say about a men’s gymrat tank top hanging loosely around a ratty lace underthing and a wan frame, with a big belt around the outside. You’re not sure what you can add to the madness that has gripped these people. You want to bang your fists against the wall and take away their shopping privileges. You want to forcefeed them photos of themselves. You feel like: Why do I even have to say this? Don’t people know? Don’t they have photo albums from back in the 1980s, and don’t they ever peek at them and think, “Wow, if only I knew then what I know now, I would never have put that on my body”? Didn’t Kate Bosworth ever stop and think, “If this tank top is ten sizes too big, then maybe, just maybe, I don’t need to put it on?” Does she not know how Bloomingdale’s works?

And what of the matronly black boots with leggings — what more is there to say about that? What, aside from wondering when jazzercise-wear crossed with hunting gear, can we add to the discussion of how stupid Kimberley Stewart looks in her barely dressed, haphazard, and yet calculated and publicity-desperate bid to be photographed anywhere, anytime, wearing anything, by anyone? Why wouldn’t she wear a skirt with that shirt? Or jeans?

What’s the deal, Kim? Have you been talking to Kate? Do you both have photos of Sienna Miller and M-K Olsen hanging on your wall, and you light a candle to them at night and get down on your knees — without the pads on this time — and whisper, “Please, sweet Jeebus, give me the courage to look like a lazy slob all the time, because one day, one day, someone will wake up and call it fashion”?

Yeah. It’s like I said: Sometimes, you’re just not sure what there is left to say.