Guess why I love Sundays?
To be sure, the reason is unexpected, considering that I write this here blog and all.
But the truth of Sunday is that it doesn't count (clothes-wise, at least. Don't pull any of that Groundhog day shit).
It's a day for experimentation, for strangeness, for the faux-grunge that passes as laziness but in fact serves as the seedlings of an emerging sartorial psyche.
What I'm trying to say (in an obnoxiously elaborately-worded way), is that Sunday is the day that I wear all of my weirdness at once, and assume that the world fails to take note.
Nighties with boots, thermal leggings with heels, oversized tees with bootie shorts and mocassins -
I've violated just about every faux-pas known to (wo)man on this here day of "rest". My assumption, of course, is that my sleepiness will be blamed for my boundary over-step, and instead of strange glances I'll get glazed over expressions.
Nobody will question the fancy-pajama aesthetic.
'Cause maybe I forgot (refused) to do laundry, and the unusual combo's really just all that I have left.
fine. blazer may be pushing it.
(pardon me, I'm watching Paula Deen),
I'm faux normal.
Fornal, if you will.
That word did not work well at all.
images via Polyvore