The Veruschka Blouse

A little thing called Photobooth is the reason why my camera has been laying forgotten in my drawer.

Long story short: I came, I saw, I conquered. (Translate: I came, I saw, I swooned, I tried on, swooned again and my lovely, lovely mother forked over her credit card. So technically, she conquered. I just wore.)

Short story long: This whole forties-fifties-sixties-seventies redux comes at such a convenient time, something I’m both grateful for and slightly resentful of. Appreciative because it means a greater selection (i.e., affordable alternatives that caught the trickle-down of runway collections) from which I can ooh and ahh over before bringing home and free range when stomping about in my wooden platforms paired with my favorite denim shorts. In the same token, I’m the tiniest bit spiteful. I don’t want strangers thinking I’m some sort of fashion victim who jumps on every trend mass consumerism spits out. But it is what it is—you win some, you lose some. I suppose it comes with the territory of being ahead so intrinsically stylish.

(I write this in my acid-washed zip-up and old Soffee shorts.)

The thing is, it was a short story. A two minute flirtation (ten if you count the time it took to walk to the fitting room, strip, slip and tie this baby on) that ended with exchanging vows in Vegas. It’s exactly as Caesar said: I laid eyes and new instantly I wouldn’t leave the store without it; the lattice bodice (I tightened it for modesty’s sake, but the effect is quite Veruschka, safari-YSL edition. My idea of perfection in a blouse: kittenish details, semi-sheer, balloon sleeves. It’s been over a month and I still can’t get over the silhouette, which is the ultimate sign of a good purchase.

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