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3/10 of a Mile in 18 Seconds
Common wisdom holds that everyone should own one really good suit, in case of emergency. This happens to be a social guideline with which I agree: just as one should have a fire extinguisher handy in case of uncontrolled inflamation, one should have a really good suit in case one is faced with the sudden need to participate in the hostile takeover of a large corporation.
My really good suit is a dark charcoal gray with a faint pinstripe. The slacks are cut for both standing and sitting, with crisp creases running up the legs. The (tailored) jacket is cut long, so that it falls to below my knees. With a white lace camisole, it is the suit of a West Texas oil mogul; with a gray sweater, it's what Death would wear as a businessman. In short, it can go from sexy to intimidating in just under 3.4 seconds.
Today I wore my suit to contest a speeding ticket in court. I paired it with a pink chenille sweater so as to be approachable, friendly, and sympathetic, (while still sincere and credible). The Defendant. I did not win the case, although the jury slashed the fine to less that half the original. That's not important. What is important is that I got to say snooty things like "voir dire" and form a pretty tight clique with the judge, prosecutor, clerk, and baliff.
They, at least, were dead impressed by my case. I was arguing that I wasn't speeding not because I wasn't travelling above the speed limit, but because my speed was "reasonable and prudent" given the road conditions. Eight years of cases, and nobody else had been clever enough to notice that clause. They wanted me to hang out with them and talk about Lord of the Rings, but I had to leave for class . . .
. . . which involved changing out of my suit.
Since I was already running an hour late, I just threw off my suit jacket and traded my slacks for jeans. You might be saying at this point "wait -- I thought Romie had no pants!"
Well, these jeans were given to me by Turtle while I was in Bath, out of sympathy for my plight. They're battered indigo, and they ride low on my hips. Straight leg with a cuff of three and a half inches. Effectively, they're "I stole my boyfriend's jeans" jeans.
Add to this the pink chenille sweater and high-heeled black loafers that carry over from my suit. Top it with the Blue Angels bomber jacket that I'm rarely without in this weather.
We have 1950s Marilyn MonRomie.
It's a weird vibe, to be sure; a decidedly weird vibe. Mostly, I wish I'd thought to bring false eyelashes and a frosted wig.
My really good suit is a dark charcoal gray with a faint pinstripe. The slacks are cut for both standing and sitting, with crisp creases running up the legs. The (tailored) jacket is cut long, so that it falls to below my knees. With a white lace camisole, it is the suit of a West Texas oil mogul; with a gray sweater, it's what Death would wear as a businessman. In short, it can go from sexy to intimidating in just under 3.4 seconds.
Today I wore my suit to contest a speeding ticket in court. I paired it with a pink chenille sweater so as to be approachable, friendly, and sympathetic, (while still sincere and credible). The Defendant. I did not win the case, although the jury slashed the fine to less that half the original. That's not important. What is important is that I got to say snooty things like "voir dire" and form a pretty tight clique with the judge, prosecutor, clerk, and baliff.
They, at least, were dead impressed by my case. I was arguing that I wasn't speeding not because I wasn't travelling above the speed limit, but because my speed was "reasonable and prudent" given the road conditions. Eight years of cases, and nobody else had been clever enough to notice that clause. They wanted me to hang out with them and talk about Lord of the Rings, but I had to leave for class . . .
. . . which involved changing out of my suit.
Since I was already running an hour late, I just threw off my suit jacket and traded my slacks for jeans. You might be saying at this point "wait -- I thought Romie had no pants!"
Well, these jeans were given to me by Turtle while I was in Bath, out of sympathy for my plight. They're battered indigo, and they ride low on my hips. Straight leg with a cuff of three and a half inches. Effectively, they're "I stole my boyfriend's jeans" jeans.
Add to this the pink chenille sweater and high-heeled black loafers that carry over from my suit. Top it with the Blue Angels bomber jacket that I'm rarely without in this weather.
We have 1950s Marilyn MonRomie.
It's a weird vibe, to be sure; a decidedly weird vibe. Mostly, I wish I'd thought to bring false eyelashes and a frosted wig.
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no subject
Very nice, I think you should work it up into a look.
no subject
-Romie
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