Heart of a Fashionista


I am surrounded by women at work every day and I see a lot (thanks God that my retina is no longer ostracized by the hooker shoes and cheap leggings of a previous colleague). I like to believe that I know a little bit more than usual about fashion. I know that Jeanne Paquin was the first female designer, that the first mini skirt was designed by Mary Quant and that Balenciaga created the first the tunic dress. I like to think that I dress nice; I even own a pretty good collection of black dresses and time by time I get “lost” in a mall for 3-4 hours. But, I am not considering myself a fashionista and I also don’t have the nerve to call myself like that. I love dressing sport and go for a good hike or to go camping. I feel great in my pajamas and my fleece robe is my favorite.

I am laughing and crying at the same time when I see those girls calling their selves fashionistas by heart, stars of the sun and of the galaxies, displaying fake editorial pictures with their fabulous outfits. But I have to recognize (without any BS) that some of them are even cute and know how to combine clothes, but unfortunately that’s all. Nothing else! Others, sadly, dressed a little bit better than the old auntie who loves scrap books. But, this, my dears, will never make you fashionistas. Sorry, this is pure reality.

From my point of view, worldwide speaking, 10 fingers are more than enough to count the real fashionistas, the genuine ones, the ones which breath fashion, not air like me and you, the ones eating fashion for lunch (not chicken soup like me because I think it’s comfort food).

I am not gonna give names now to show you I know big names in fashion, but I will let the stories talk for their selves. It was a certain Fashion Week, a couple of years ago, and the weather was cruel. Big piles of snow, wind and cold like hell that your ovaries would have been freezing only by stepping outside. Trying to make my way to the subway, I saw two ladies crossing the street (like two black cats). At the beginning I thought that from cold I have hallucinations, but nope, there they were. Like two stars in the middle of the night, loved by the entire universe. Both of them were wearing strap dresses, sandals with 20 cm heels and sunglasses!!! People, it was 9 o’clock PM, pitch dark, minus 10 degrees and I was wearing my Sorel boots, my winter parka and wrapped in a huge scarf. I walked to them just to ask them out of curiosity if they are not freaking cold (no, I did not take a picture with them). The answer I’ve got was “I, myself, am a four seasons collection, not just spring/summer or fall/winter”. Oh, well, if this season collections are coming with pneumonia, no thanks, I prefer wearing the last season’s one.


Another story I have is more recent, just few weeks ago when I met a former colleague for a possible project. It doesn’t matter what we talked or what we ate, as other details are in fact important. We agreed to see each other to a certain hour, to a certain spot, because the diva was coming directly from the gym. I don’t know about you, but when I go home from spinning or other gym activity I look like a drained mop, with my hair all over the place, an old hoody and some comfy runners. Oh, well, my friend was walking slow towards me, almost like a runway model, with a striped top hanging on a shoulder, leggings, a loose bun on top of her head (almost like Flashdance), but wait, there is more, there was make-up and heels, people, heels!

Hm, I say no more.



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