My Sartorial Splendor, Such As It Is

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 8.442% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

Fashion experts say that we do not dress to make ourselves look good; we dress to remind ourselves of the times we felt sexiest.  Sadly, this is more difficult for me, as my sexiest time was when I was in fishnets and high heels, doing Frank-n-Furter at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  And that outfit’s a little exhausting to pull off in the Midwest.
But I do like walking around in heels.  It improves my posture.  It makes my ass look better.  And, as Gini noted, when I have heels on, I strut everywhere.
Problem was, finding the appropriate boots.  I didn’t want stripper boots because, well, midwest.  I didn’t want cowboy boots because I think cowboy boots imply a certain rest of a look that I wasn’t going to pull off.  So what I really wanted, after some research, was Cuban-heeled boots, a.k.a. “Beatle Boots,” with a subtle heel that wasn’t too bad.
Ordered a pair.
Those Cubans have narrow feet, man.
So I was heartbroken for quite some time at these misfit shoes, begging my shoe-happy friends to find me links – and eventually, Nex0s shot me a link to a wide version of the Cuban heels!  I waited at the door like a kid about to get his Red Ryder BB Gun, and eventually the shoes arrived!  And they fit!
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The pictures, sadly, don’t do the boots justice.  It’s not the boots themselves; you have to know my slump-shouldered posture by heart, and then see the difference as I stand taller, forced into better posture by differing pedal physics.
I’ve worn the heels a couple of times (working at home, it seems a bit ridiculous to lounge around in them), and I have to say it’s quite the adjustment.  While I got used to running up and down toilet-paper-slicked aisles in my heels, I never actually navigated stairs.  So I look good until I get to a staircase, and then suddenly I’m a trembling foal.
Also, I have but one speed in these suckers: strut.  It’s a sedate military pace, which means if I’m caught in the rain I will march, looking good, to the car, while everyone else flees.  It’s causing some problems.  But hey, as Frank Zappa said, beauty knows no pain.
In other news, yes, I did my nails as a glittery whore-red, and my nails, I forgot to show you them:
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My manicurist – I have one now – loves this shade.  She told me, “I am not painting your nails blue any longer!”  And these do get compliments.  You can’t really see how glittery my nails are in this shot, but trust me, they’re like little disco balls at the ends of my fingers.  At some point, I’ll discuss why I paint my nails and the privilege wrapped therein, but that’s for a different day.  Now, just admire the pretty.
Also admire the pretty of my pedicure and my amazing pajama pants.  Yekaterina says that my pedicure should match my pants.  I’m not a guy who matches with anything, Yekaterina.
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2 Comments

  1. Dora
    Nov 16, 2012

    Lovin’ your style! X

  2. ilya
    Nov 16, 2012

    Awaiting your post on why you paint your nails. Because I don’t get it. For men or women.

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