Fashion Ghosts of Naomi Klum

by Rhonda Hansome

She’s wearing two different prints!  The blouse is obviously strewn with spring flowers and the skirt is clearly large tropical palm.  Mismatched?  Well, they didn’t so much offend the eye as surprise it with unexpected harmony.  Her city stride is confident in an off-hand ( I’m fly wearing two completely different patterns) kind of way.  Damn!  I envied her and her shapely, but not mile wide ass, cupped by the lush leaf print on her pencil skirt, beckoning glances along the avenue.

Among the various things I’ve longed for (including fortune, free and easy swinging hair, love, fame, section 8, and a father) I’ve always wanted to sport, with an undeniable flair, complementing but completely different prints.  You can have your world peace and end to global poverty wishes.  I want to wear stripes with dots, plaid with stars, a paisley with madras in a combination transforming me into - a cross between Naomi Campbell and Heidi Klum.  Naomi Klum world famous jet set featured model of the elite Ebony Fashion Fair Fashion Show.  Alas, I live a life ever plagued by unattainable fashion goals.  Curse my first issue of Seventeen Magazine and its coveted summer discovery, the dirndl skirt; a garment that no matter the fabric, made me look like I was hastily dressed in an accordion.

In spite of my feminist leanings (akin to the slant of your aunt’s old card table used only for Thanksgiving and funeral repasts) I long for fashion satori. It has spent my lifetime eluding me.  I’m aware (with my nose pressed firmly against the glass guarding an Alexander McQueen museum ensconced display) that my quest could only be satisfied by a full time stylist, tailor and unlimited income.  And yet in the immortal words of Martin Luther King, “I have a dream.”  As long as November follows October I will forever fantasize myself in “winter white”.   It is a flagrant flouting of the “no white after Labor Day” rule that is at once rebellious and luxurious.   I can’t avoid this sartorial daydream.  I perambulate blocking the seasonal chill and wind swathed in shades of ecru, buttermilk, eggshell and cream; a mass of pale textures playing against my chocolate hued skin.  IF I could actually pull that look together from boots to cashmere* toque, I’d have less than a minute to enjoy the outfit’s pristine impact before a spot, stain, smudge, or spill besmirched an element or the entire pretentious ensemble.   Pre-theater drinks at a French bistro = red wine on my slacks.  Cozy Italian dinner = pasta sauce on my boucle sweater.  Short stroll to the museum  =  boots irreparably scuffed and dinged.  You say, “Rhonda it’s a FANTASY, there must be the possibility of your wearing “winter white” without incident!”  Ha, ha, ha, you amuse me…

Fashion longings and nightmares have stalked me since I turned seven and for three years straight my age and shoe size synched.  Traumatized, I would never again wear Mary Janes.  Just this month when blowing out my birthday candle I silently wished (my annual request) for feet two sizes smaller than my current size 11W. I have delirious visions of walking into a Stuart Weitzman or Christian Louboutin shoe sanctuary, I mean store and sliding a practically invisible size 9 REGULAR WIDTH foot comfortably into the latest styles;  alack for size 11 wide me the beautiful sexy shoe cabinet** just does not exist. 

What’s a girl running bare foot from the ghosts of Naomi Klum to do?  This girl whose mother was an accomplished seamstress of Vogue patterns, a girl who took sewing lessons at her downtown Singer Sewing Machine center and a year of sewing at her Catholic girl’s school?  Iguess just watch Project Runway and dream…

Now just between you and me, what’s your fashion guilty pleasure, nightmare or Holy Grail?

 *Political correctness compelled me, even in my fantasy, to eschew my desired white fox head wrap.

** For access to this cabinet see the London hand crafted, custom shoe maker and the aforementioned unlimited income.