Let me begin the new year with a humble piece of advice to all the ladies hitting the clubs like it’s 1989: it’s not 1989, and you’re not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, so please, please, please stop wearing skin tight mini dresses and skirts that barely cover your poor, probably embarassed bottoms.
I don’t know what it’s like in other cities, but in Sydney, there’s a scourge of tight mini dresses afflicting the fashionable sensibilities of women under 35. Women walk down the street, lower halves stuffed into tiny skirts that are like sausage casings, yanking them down after every step so they don’t spring up and reveal the parts unknown. It gets worse when there’s drinking involved. Poor strangers like me, minding our own business, maybe getting some gelato, have our eyeballs assaulted with underpants in every colour of the rainbow. And then we lose our appetites. And then the gelato vendors lose money. This trend doesn’t just damage eyeballs; it damages the economy.
I hate to say it because usually I really like American Apparel, but I think their photos featuring their improbably sexy factory workers in sausage mini dresses are partially to blame. The pictures are airbrushed, covering bruises, shaving wounds, celullite — all kinds of reality. Your legs in that tiny dress are not airbrushed, so unless your skin is totally unblemished and you have the svelte physique of a model or maybe a sprinter, cover up a bit.
The beauty of clothing is that we can use it to enhance the good bits and hide the bad. Like Dan Savage of Savage Love fame always says of relationships, fashion isn’t a deposition. It’s not about full disclosure or even a lick of honesty. Fashion makes it ok to lie about what’s really under your clothes, so let the dishonesty drip from your closet in swathes of lovely, figure-flattering, skin-tone-complimenting fabric. Cover up. It’s ok to tell a little fib.