In the meantime, I have begun the back of my vest, deciding finally on a rounded band over the neck and shoulders that dips lower in the front. On order is Vogue’s Stitionary, Vol. 2 so I can pick out a gorgeous cable pattern that will stretch well over the shoulders and bust. We’ll see how it goes-even if it is relegated to my collection of never-to-be-worn FO’s I will share my pattern. But you must keep in mind that I am designing it for my figure, which I am sorry to say resembles that of a 12-year old girl lately. Optimistically speaking, it might turn out to be perfect for your teenage sister. Ha.
But the feminine musing of the day involves boots. Boots. My passion for fashion has been dulled this year since nothing looks good on me lately, no matter how carefully I search. However, the lust for shoes is never affected by weight gain or loss. My lust for boots though, has tormented me for ages. Seven years ago I had a pair of stacked knee-high black boots that I wore proudly, until being hollered at crudely by some scumbag in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. Since I really value the elements of class and dignity, it mortified me. To think that I might look sleazy! Words could not express my shame, and the boots were tossed. I dreaded ever attracting that sort of attention, and took steps to avoid any manner of dress that may directly OR inadvertently send the wrong message.
It’s been a long time, and though I envy the girls who pull off boots, I have been ever so fearful of wearing them myself. So it was with all the courage I could muster that I grabbed those shiny knee-high boots off the shelf this week, paid out the dough, and prayed they would get more than a few wearings before I get mortified again. Tentatively, they have survived a day at the office (but I confess I have a backup pair of heels in the car) and no one yet has screamed, “Oh my gawd!” or whispered in my vicinity enough to make me self-conscious. Maybe the curse of the crude DD van man is finally broken.
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