Slave to Fashion

Let it be hereby known that dress shopping blows giant donkey chunks. Seriously. Maybe I’m starting to turn into an old fuddy-duddy, but after sorting through enough dresses to cause two nights worth of nightmares, I think I can say with reasonable certainty that fashion designers secretly (or not so secretly) loathe women and the female form. Otherwise how would we ever get something like this:

I like to refer to it as Ass In A Bag. Because your ass? It looks like it’s in a bag.

Then there’s it’s corollary, Boobs In A Bag:

These are not cute. They don’t even pretend to be flattering. They’re simply the twisted whims of fashion’s fickle agents. (You like that? Eat that, fashionistas!)

Then there’s this, which I…there’s no…just look at it.

I’m baffled.

So after trying on numerous dresses including one that was GORGEOUS, but had a slit up the thigh high enough to be scandalous among friends, much less at a very conservative family wedding, I decided to wear a classic dress from my wardrobe and spice it up with, what else? a HOT pair of new shoes.

Check these puppies out.

Trendy? Yes. Strappy? Check. Hawt? No doubt about it. I’ll save the dress shopping for when clothes quit making me look like I hate myself.

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