P.Lim, no SERIOUSLY. Call me. / by laurel

Alright, y'all. 

Anyone who knows me knows that there have been some iiinteresting sartorial choices in the past. And by interesting, I mean that my 'choices' are usually rather polarizing. 10% of people I know love them, and the other 90% swear that whatever the choice is is patently ridiculous. I dig that; hell, half the time I agree with the dissenting 90%, but that does no more to explain or justify my occasionally whacky decisions. 

Knee-high fringed moccasins come to mind.

The massive (and quite possibly deadly as I discovered whilst flailing about at an Arcade Fire show last Summer and it nearly impaled poor Josh in the skull) horn necklace is another one.

Then there was the Winter of The Trapper Hat and Studded Stripper Shoes seen here in a dazzling haze of absinthe and champagne.

And though I have no pictorial evidence of its magnificent, chestnut-colored presence, there was The Fur Coat (It was vintage. Look, I like animals as much as the next PETA member, but it [whatever it was in its former fur-covered lifetime] would already be dead by now, so I'm justified, ok? I'M JUSTIFIED). The Fur Coat swathed me in decadence for the coldest week Chicago has seen in recent years, and while there are no pictures, if you come over and request to see The Coat, I'll begrudgingly oblige by busting it out of its closet purgatory and giving it one last spin around the room. But you'd  have to make me a G&T first, because I'm not prone to swan about without some kind of libation in hand, so make your requests wisely.  

Most recently, who could forget the butterfly headdress? 

My point is, I make some interesting choices. Choices that not everyone would agree with. Choices that I know full well will make me cringe to high heaven ten or so years from now. I'm livin' la vida 80's inasmuch as we all recoil in horror when we see the way we dressed back then, and vow to cut the sass and stick to class the next time around. But I'm living in the moment, and if there's a choice between a simple black sheath that will probably age as well as a full-bodied Port and a frothy, colorful confection whose sartorial shelf life rivals that of raw fish, well. I don't think you should really be questioning which choice I would make. 

Which brings me to my latest acquisition: Harem Pants. 


They're baggy.

They're crotchy. 

They're Arabian Nights meets "Can't Touch This!"-era MC H. 

And you know what else? I'M WEARING THEM AT WORK TODAY.

I'll let you resume to your daily activity after your heart resumes beating from the horror of it all.