Sometimes I see an outfit and I respond in ways far beyond, “Oh, that’s cute.” No, sometimes I see an outfit and I imagine myself wearing it. I imagine where I’m wearing it and who is with me and what I am eating and drinking and saying while I’m wearing it. It’s not just an outfit, it’s a life. Or something.
Like, I see this outfit on Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, and I imagine myself wearing it — albeit with the pants a few sizes bigger, with a shorter hem, because this is me not some supermodel — as I stroll the streets of some town in the South of France. I am smoking, but the cigarettes don’t cause cancer in this imaginary world, and I am holding hands with my French fling and he’s more intelligent than in real life, though his English is still atrocious, but that’s what makes our conversations so charming. And suddenly he stops, sets the bottle of wine he was carrying down on the cobble-stoned street, and using his gold pinky-ringed hand, he lifts the brim of my terribly chic hat that only works on some people, and he kisses me. It is terribly romantic, but then a stray cat wanders over and knocks over the wine onto my suede shoes, but we don’t care because this outfit is perfect. The End. [Photos: Fame/Flynet]