The issue of the Mini Dress is one of much social, political and drunken debate. Over my few years of being old enough to see the odd afterhours club and bar, there are many a pair of Sydney underwear (or none at all) that I would prefer not to have seen. The owner,
surely hopefully, had not intended it – standing straight, her dress would only just be long enough to skim the outermost boundaries of her arse. She couldn’t have known – poor thing. Or perhaps it was her motive.
We’ll never know.
What we do know, though, is that for its promises of freedom, the Mini Dress is actually quite restrictive. You can’t put your hands up when they’re playing your song (even moving your hips, like yeah, is questionable), you can’t berate any Kardashian nor Jersey Shore unless you’re wearing flats (changing into them in the cab home doesn’t count), you’ll probably offend half the population, and you’ll get arrested in other faraway lands.
But it makes your legs look almost as long as Karlie Kloss’ tibia!
Personally, I’d still prefer to be nodding my head with Miley.
And after all that drama, here I am in the Mini Dress. At a bar no less – though, I would call IZE‘s rooftop affair a closer cry to interior wonderment, and perhaps so far as Pinterest-perfect (the highest honour a room could be badged at, it seems). All-white and clean lines is my kind of cheers-to-that. And yet, the only line we’re concerned about here is the hemline. The clean one. It falls exactly halfway between my hips and my knees. Short enough so that Bali’s 40 degree mid-afternoon sweat wouldn’t hit me too hard; long enough so that all of my (underwhelming) assets are locked safely away.
Condolences, Neville Longbottom.
Such is the rule: the smaller the dress, the more you wear to distract from it. Something around the waist to shield your backside, something around your wrist to tell the time, something on your face for people to compliment so they don’t get bored too quickly and move on to examining your torso, sneakers larger than your head to kick people with.
Somewhere in that mess, you reach a healthy medium.
Bonus: you won’t get arrested.
P.S. you have but a few hours to put your name on 500 Euros to spend at Luisa Via Roma! My treat.