As far as my wardrobe is concerned, the days of bare knees and Legs Eleven are numbered, and for the coming Winter months, don’t even think about it. For the girls I’ve seen out around the world in the dead of a Saturday night snow globe, thunder storm, or other such Snuggie®-inducing conditions, falling out of cabs in no less than open-toed heels and mini skirts, this is for you: our Golden Age of Ass and Pins has already written itself into class history books as a sartorial disaster of the generation, and nothing more.*
We’ve migrated north to the Cold Shoulder.
Keep up, people.
I’m sure there has been some entertainment great, aside from Justin Timberlake (though surely, he would be authority enough), who has referenced the overriding sexiness of a woman’s back. This, I will preach over boobs and booty any day. However, where the wider majority of us don’t have the forum pleasures of sporting a backless flatterer each and every day, shoulders and collarbones are the next best reference to shoulder-blades and backbones.
Our beloved innerwear as outerwear trend, so readily embraced by my fellow flat-chested comrades, has already done some of the work for us, with every mutation of that rascal, The Slip, available in all varieties of colours, textures, lengths, and degrees of chest exposure. I personally find the slip top far more versatile, in my preference for layering as many bottoms and coats as possible, though I’ll agree that here, I could have gone a size down on my favourite silver-grey affair. To distract from potential Flash City during this Fashion Week just past, I opted for rather aggressive a Boob Shield, as eloquently expressed by Sophie and Tania, a skirt so confusing, lips so bright, and boots so high, that the chest would be the last point of eye-contact if at all.
Certainly, the viewer would be quite underwhelmed in my instance. Flat as a board, this one.
But I suppose, that’s another womanly strategy altogether.
For now, it’s pretty clear that the shoulder comes out on top, albeit a little chilly, in some vague reference to Audrey, or Grace Kelly, or Marilyn, or Elizabeth Taylor, or something.
And after all that, you could argue that the real formula is to dress like a Baby Boomer with just one outrageous Generation Y element.
Or that there’s no formula at all.
Or perhaps I’ve gotten too old too quickly. I’m the first to admit that I’m an 80-year-old at heart – I much prefer experimenting with weird pasta recipes to getting loopy between strobe lights (though, this is not to say that I’m not partial to the odd shake-shake-shake). I will also admit that I wore high-necked, knee-length, t-shirt dress with a shirt around my waist and closed shoes to Future Music Festival, and, had I not felt so ostracised by my apparently anomalous coverage, I would have been telling half naked left, right, and centre to put some pants on.
Meanwhile, Pharrell was great.
But I digress.
Proceed as you will.