More ironic than the damning stares at my get-up as I stomped across campus between MBFWA shows yesterday was the get-up itself - nothing was the way it should be.
In the car on my way to Day One of Australian Fashion Week yesterday morning (someone remind me when April decided to sprint on in), my dear friend Camille exclaimed over Whatsapp that my life was the ultimate irony. I replied with octopus Emojis, and proceeded to Camilla & Marc's 10th anniversary show, before trotting down the road from Carriageworks to class, and back again. More ironic than the damning stares at my get-up as I stomped my way across campus was the get-up itself. Granted, nothing was the way it should be.
For the purposes of this examination, I'm going to say that the effortless French both kickstarted and fuel the unrelenting cape and arms crossed method of wearing a jacket. Your everyday consumer would point out the existence and function of arm holes. Indeed, my boyfriend offered to cut the sleeves off my coat the first time I turned up to a dinner date apparently armless. That was step one. Then came the jacket as a belt, which we probably don't need to break down given my borderline uncomfortable repeat offense of that glorious practicality. And surely, we arrive at the present day where, despite the lack of fastenings on this blazer altogether, I somehow wear it as a top, using a skirt as a belt to make my boob patrol slightly less nerve racking.
I say skirt as a belt because the drop-crotch on these leather slouchers fell a fair fall below the hemline, which lands me in complete contradiction to what I have always said about the skirt-pant combination elongating your legs (given that nobody can actually tell where your crotch is). Aside from the fact that my crotch is clearly not halfway to my knees, this choice of pseudo-sporty man pants was the distinguishing factor between myself and a boozy better by the race-courses, or perhaps a Baby boomer's cockatil party, as would have been the case with skinny leather pants. Nobody would disagree that a plunging bra-less blazer-top needed a royal kick of sweatpants masquerading as leather chic.
Are you ready for Day Two of copious runway Instagrams and pant action?
photos by Zanita Morgan