Friends Don't Let Friends Wear Bad Fashion

DATELINE: Albuquerque, New Mexico, Sunday, February 14th, Anthropologie Boutique. Shopping with Flamin' Mo.

In between ooh-ing and aah-ing at how wonderfully Miss Mo can rock all those problematic Anthropologie outfits, Pirate and I are taking turns scouting out potential bargains for ourselves. Because, well, when in Rome . . . look for Roman bargains.

When it's my turn to peruse the racks, I find myself singularly unimpressed with just about everything except a stunning beaded boho vest that Pirate has previously pulled for my consideration, and which I am, well, considering.

Pirate knows I am easily distracted by shiny objects.
Especially if they make me feel like I'm walking on the beach in Malibu circa 1977, while Lindsay Buckingham serenades Moi in the background.

Anyway.

Then a tropical sunset splash of color assaults my peripheral vision and I stop. Amazed. Mesmerized. Enchanted.

By this:

Tracy Reese Gainsborough Pencil Skirt

Gleefully, I grab a skirt off the rack and make my way back to Pirate.

Who recoils in horror.

"Lookie at what – !"

"No."

"But don't you just love – ? "

"No."

"But the print! Look at the exuberant – "

"Not only no, hell no."

Then Pirate snatches at the price tag. "Plus, it's too much money."

In this, she is correct. Still, you know how you get something stuck in your mind and can't get it out? This is Moi. With this skirt. I vow to one day return to try it on.

Which turns out to be: Four days later . . .

I make a beeline for the skirt, pull my size off the rack, and hold it up to my waist. "Hmmm . . ." I think to myself, "Looks small. Really, really small." The next size up isn't available, so I grab the next size up after that, a full two sizes (shhhhhhh!) larger than I usually wear. Then I make a quick pass by the sale rack at which I find a sequined bat wing black knit sweater that I think will pair nicely with the skirt.

One of those über chipper Anthro sales gals scribbles my name on the plaque on the dressing room door and in I go.

And the skirt . . . has the fit problems typical with my pear shaped bod:

Gapes at the waist like a big mouth bass.

Bunches at my thighs like a child hamster-cheeking candy.

Le sigh. It's not going to work.

The next day, I send the photos to Pirate and lament to her about the fit.

MOI: The pluses are that I think the print is unique and fun; something different. The minuses are that I got a booty, hips, and thighs. Doesn't matter what I weigh, they will always be there to some degree and do I really want all that HELLO! splash of Technicolor on my bottom half?

PIRATE: See, that's why I don't like the look for you. It unbalances your body . . . I do like the print, though. It reminds me of a painting. Monet? Chagal? Disney?

MOI: Baby barf?

PIRATE: Walt Disney Barf!

Finally, Pirate capitulates, with this bit of sage advice:

"Buy it when it goes on sale. In one size even larger and get it tailored to fit. Then immediately destroy the size tag."

And that, dear readers, is how one manages to talk oneself into wearing Walt Disney Barf.