But I digress. Back to the blouse. Perhaps it's just as well that the sun has washed-out the colors of this shirt - in another two weeks I'll be coming to you from Florida for several weeks, and my entire closet there is made-up of stuff like this. Seriously, this shirt is conservative compared to some of the patterns and crazy-lady prints I have hanging in the closet down there. I cannot wait. But like with anything high-impact, it's just as well I break you guys in slowly. It's been a long, grey winter, and you don't want to just leap into the neon tropical prints without a proper warmup. Well...I mean...I do, but normal people might need a bit more foreplay first.
Funny, if you would have told my twenty-something self that my forty-something year old self would not really like wearing black, and in fact hardly owns any black clothes any more, I would have probably laughed in your face with disbelief (in between re-applying coats of deep burgundy matte lipstick) and told you to get lost. But things change - life moves on, and wardrobes suddenly find themselves filled with vertigo-inducing technicolor prints enough to give a teetotaling schoolmarm an acid flashback.
This blouse, like most things that are loud and colourful and gloriously in your face, sort of stands on it's own two feet, so I really didn't feel the need to do anything too fancy with it. Some 70s-inspired jeans and wedges, a rope belt I found at a thrift shop, and that's me done. It is sort of a go-to silhouette for me, this 70s thing. After paging-through last month's Vogue last night (I'm always behind) looking for a new trend I might try-out, I could not find a single one I liked enough to bother. High-collar Victorian necklines? Maxi skirts? The "dad sneaker" trend!?!? The spring trends are ripped right out of a 1980s Utah sister wife ranch. No thanks. Clearly my blouse is not the only thing trippin' right now. I shall remain right here in the 1970s until the fashion cognescenti have come down from their bad trip.