I recently bought a pair of vintage white satin pilgrim shoes on Etsy.
That's right: white. satin. pilgrim. shoes. Those aren't even my own words—they were in the description blurb. Like, "white," "satin," "pilgrim," and "shoe" were there side by side, clearly available to read and make an executive decision on, and I still clicked the purchase button.
They have bows on them, too.
A few months ago I bought a pink pajama jumpsuit from Reformation to wear outside, in plain sight, when I am not asleep. I had to get the arms and legs hemmed, and as I stood on the platform being measured by the tailor, he looked at the garment and asked, "So you . . . do you. . . do you wear this to go places?" I said no, that I'd watched too many movies from the 1940s, but then failed to expand because it was a lie and I hadn't thought that far ahead. He shifty-eye looked at me. And then I shifty-eye looked at him. And then we shifty-eye looked at each other. Because we both knew I was lying with an actually much weirder response, and neither of us understood why I hadn't just said yes.
The truth is, if you break into my apartment on any given night, you'll find me aslumber under a mountain of clothes, with far too deeply stuffed earplugs, using a drool laden mouth guard, and wearing my legitimate pajamas: underwear with holes in them.
Here's the thing: I don't really give a damn how I look inside my home, but out of it? KA-POW! It's a bunch of weird shit, live and in your face.
I have high heels I can't walk in because there are feathers that get in the way. So basically I just stand there and have someone guide me when it's time to move. Not to mention the flats I daren't walk around in not on tiptoe whilst journeying across a New York City sidewalk, for fear of what could get trapped in their long, black, furry heels. Basically feces, I'm scared of feces getting trapped in the heels, ain't no one got time for that, gtfoh.
Remember that one episode of Sex and the City where Carrie wore a belt around her bare stomach, and everyone was like, "Girl what no"? I've done that.
I own a long yellow faux fur coat that makes me look like Big Bird's estranged short cousin, and I will straight up shuffle into brunch on five-inch glitter platforms I have to calculate each step in, with something shiny sticking out of my head, and wearing some very, very questionable eye makeup, being all like, "OH HAI HOMIES," while everyone dies of shame for me.
Come to think of it, I guess I don't really care how I look outside my home either.
HOLEY UNDERWEAR, IT'S TIME TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE.