In a Sow’s Ear
I’m still pondering the experience of traveling from Hicksville in Montana to the City of Brotherly Love in Pennsylvania. It also appeared to be the City of Sisters of Ill Repute. I’ve not seen so much pooching, hanging, flapping, flabby, blubbery bare skin since I sold the last lactating sow pig to the meat packer.
Down through the ages, how people dress has been a major heavy-duty industry; bigger than cars, houses and politicians’ salaries. Even in the cave-man era, the guys had to go out and kill a critter; the women skinned it, chewed the hide and with a sharpened piece of bone as a needle, they stitched together something to cover up bare behinds. The garments didn’t have much in the way of style, grace or attractiveness. For jewelry, the cave gals had to make do with bones in noses or earlobes.
Fast forward to the 21st century. Look around. Do you see what I see? Is my eyesight failing? Have I not been paying attention? Perhaps I’ve lived in the country too long? Possibly I’ve an age-related perception problem? Maybe I’m a total rube with no understanding of the “real world”?
While attending the Conference in “Philly”, an amazing number of Ill Reputes wore low-cut, skin-tight, mini-skirts or knee-length short trousers ” white, of course ” on their lower appendages. Torsos were encased in “baby-doll” lace-enhanced, spaghetti-strap garments four sizes too small. Paint couldn’t have gotten tighter.
Shorts or skirts rode 3 inches below that portion of anatomy where once an umbilical cord had been attached. The spaghetti-strap, beribboned, baby-doll tops descended to approximately 3 inches above the umbilical cord location. But not to worry. The actual belly button was hidden by flabs of lard that pooched forth in the gap between lower and upper garment hems.
But it wasn’t just in Philadelphia that such carnival styles prevailed. The airports offered a continuing fashion show of women and men garbed in thrift-store reject clothing.
De rigueur are multiple spare tires bulging over and under belts and waistbands; tattoos that will definitely not age gracefully; earrings hooked in ears, noses, lips, bellies, tongues, and places I don’t ever wish to know about. (However, might be fun to wave a strong magnet in their vicinity).
And oh, woe, after returning from Philly, I notice that even on the streets of Hicksville, dressing in dirty, stained, torn, duds with lard muffins spilling over and under belts or waist bands seems to be standard. It’s as if everybody wants to brag on their blubber.
Katherine Hepburn, a star whose work included “The Philadelphia Story,” was always attired in unadorned, classic garments, wore no makeup off stage, and never pierced anything.
Katherine, I miss you.
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