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Tuesday , December 14, 2010
Laura Jane's Ultimate Fashion Challenge: Week Thirteen (RIP UFC)
In the grand tradition of 9 out of 12 UFC collages, my final UFC collage background is ripped from John Hopper's ever-amazing Textile Blog. It is Cosmic Fog by Robert Oerley. Cosmic Fog! How appropriate. The UFC itself has been one hell of a Cosmic Fog, to say the least.
PPS: Stay tuned for LJ'S UFC "LESSONS LEARNED" WRAP-UP, to be posted sometime this coming week.
Day 85 (10.27.08)- THE FINAL DIARIES OF THE MADDEST HOUSEWIFE ON EARTH: green tartan ruffle-necked blouse; lavender headscarfe; blue/white/black checkered knee-length skirt (safety-pinned for a higher waist); grey footless stockings; grey old-man lace-ups; red lipstick
I feel like Martha Dumptruck.
It's cold out. I'm tired. I hate everything in the world. I hate them all. Every last one of 'em. The lyric in Buffy Sainte-Marie's "Co'dine" that goes "I feel like I'm dying, but I'm already dead" is really resonating with me right now, but at the same time, I am resentful of Buffy Sainte-Marie, because at least she got to be addicted to a drug. I'm just shitty sober, cold, and feeling terrible about myself. I wish I was on drugs right now. If I were on drugs, maybe I wouldn't be so debilitatingly preoccupied with the out-of-control shittiness of my physical appearance.
This skirt belonged to my grandmother in the 1950s, so I feel bad saying anything against it. Well, it's not so much the skirt's fault that I hate this skirt as much as I do right now. I like this skirt. I think it would look fabulous with Day 5's striped Oxford, or perhaps Day 16's speckled cardigan. In theory, it would look fabulous with the green tartan blouse I've paired it with today, and maybe it does. There is nothing particularly terrible about this outfit. It's just that I HAD NO CHOICE.
I need to be back in control!!!!
Day 86 (10.28.08)- THE CRAPPIEST OUTFIT OF THE ENTIRE UFC!: red snowflaked long johns; striped stupid Oxford-y thing; red & white baseball shirt; Australia tee
It is the weird intersection of Complex October, Scorpio month, and the final days of the UFC. Life is just way too much.
Last night, while walking to the train station and feeling intensely sorry for myself for having to exist in the miserable hell that is UnLucky Shit Hell Death Crap Fuck I Want To Fucking Kill Myself Week Thirteen, I decided that tomorrow (which is now today), I would wear all 4 of my remaining outfits in public, and then it would ALL BE OVER FOREVER.
But I couldn't do it. I can't do it. That would be so weak of me! It would be forfeiting the Ultimate Fashion Challenge, pretty much, and I don't do that. I'm not losing the Ultimate Fashion Challenge. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard in my life.
I am what they call a trooper. Which is why I look like this today, why I have kept this going for nearly three straight months, and why I am subjecting myself to three more days of this misery. You know when you're hanging out with your friends at somebody's apartment and you're all stoned and have the munchies and everybody's too lazy to go get food but then finally your one friend steps up to the plate and says, "Okay, fine. I will walk to the store and buy you all food, so long as you write down what you want on a piece of paper"?
Well, a few years ago, I decided that it was my calling in life to always be that person. It's inconvenient and annoying, but in the end, the self-satisfaction makes it all worthwhile. And that's where I am right now. I have nothing funny or interesting to say about shitty pyjamas. Looking like this is not fun, or cool, or anything except total fucking torture accosting me from every possible angle.
But I feel good about it.
Day 87 (10.29.08)- AIR SCANDINAVIA PRINCESS SNOW BUNNY-CHIC: grey old-man lace-ups; black stockings; periwinkle Fair Isle sweater-dress; Incredible String Band hat
I've been saving this dress for when it got cold out. It got cold out. It's cold. I'm cold.
This is the first day in a really long time that I've worn only one article of clothing, without having to pile on accessories or create some dumb concept-look out of a billion things that don't match. So that's kind of nice. But still: I'm cold.
I always look so pathetic in winter, pouting and quivering like a dumb little chihuahua. I am one of those people who can't help but hunch and shiver and whimper when they're cold, which I always am. It's one of the downsides of being zero percent body fat.
But all coldness-related complaints aside, I feel pretty cute today; I feel passably Like Myself. I am writing this in green pen in my notebook at a Nauseatingly Normie sports bar populated by after-work businessmen with loosened ties. I am here because it is close to the train station, and I have to catch a train in twenty minutes. I am getting drunk fast so that my train ride home will suck less.
It's weird. I do this kind of a lot- come to places where I obviously don't belong to drink white wine spritzers before my evening commute. On some level (that's an empty phrase, I just realized), I feel more Like Myself under these circumstances than I do in situations that make logical "Where LJ Would Be" sense. Right here and now, it doesn't matter what I'm wearing. In this context, anything I could possibly have on would communicate the exact same thing: WEIRD.
In two days time, both the UFC and my Complex October will be over forever. All I can say to myself is:
Expect the unexpected, Laura Jane.
Day 88 (10.30.08)- EIGHTY-SEVEN NAUTICAL MILES DOWN, TWO TO GO/FLEET WEEK STREET CHIC: white wiffle-ball lace-ups; baggy white trousers; quilted gold belt; blue & white checked blousey thing; Navy Nurse necklace; pastel knit beret
Like all excessively analytical people, I spend a lot more time engaging with my intellect than I do with my physical self. So often I look in the mirror and feel entirely disconnected from how that person is me- that this body belongs to this brain. When I initially embarked upon this godforsaken journey through Sartorial Hell, I thought that maybe I'd end up a bit more in tune with the "atoms, molecules, bones & blood" side of myself- but it never happened. The best days of the UFC were the ones when I looked like my brain.
I sort of hate how people have to look like something; it's so arbitrary. I think telling somebody they're hot or pretty or beautiful is the crappiest compliment in the world: it has literally nothing to do with actual you, and everything to do with your parents' chromosomes.
It's nice, though, to have confirmation that I dress the way I do for myself and not for others. This stupid 1920s-y sailor get-up is the last real outfit of the UFC- obviously, I hate it. But I can fathom how others will think it's kind of cool, and sure, okay, fine: it can be, if that's how you wanna play it.
Really, though, I am just salivating/chomping at the bit with off-the-charts excitement, fantasizing about all the amazing shit I'll get to wear whenever I want! Every day! Forever! JEANS AND T-SHIRTS! And hoodies. Oh my!
I wonder how long it will take for the novelty of Post-UFC Existence to wear off. Probably about an hour, and then I'll just want to start it all over again. I really can't believe it's actually going to be over!
Time: it does pass. I've proved it.
Day 89 (10.31.08)- SLUTTY CAT/ACCIDENTAL BEAST OF BURDEN/MY SPIRIT ANIMAL'S SPIRIT ANIMAL/THE UFC IS OVER FOREVER!!!!!-CHIC: leopard print flats; black stockings; ruffly black prom dress w/ sweetheart neckline; panther necklace; metallic ocelot cardigan; black eyeliner; red lipstick; cat ears
So. This is it. It's over.
I could not have asked for a better UFC end-date. Halloween! HALLOWEEN! THE UFC ENDS ON HALLOWEEN. That is just so gorgeous.
Tomorrow morning whatever!!!! I don't care anything. It's Halloween, I dressed up as a slutty cat, it was fine, whatever. Tomorrow morning, I'll wake up at whatever time I happen to wake up at, write some things down, and that's it. My outfit will most likely be low-concept. I don't care, though. Either way. Whatever.
It's impossible for anything to feel as triumphant as it once did, as the weather turns colder, and as I, and the world, get(s) older. I have lived this night a thousand different times, and it has meant a thousand different things. I have a lower tolerance for this night than others. Maybe if it were a year ago, and I was somebody else, everything would be different.
I have been told that I'm an old soul. Does that make eighty-nine days worth less, or more? The UFC is over. Who will I be without it? Tomorrow morning I will wake up, and I will not have to take a photograph of myself, and I will not have to tell you about the outfit I wore. You will never know what I wore on November 1st, 2008. That's perfect.
Really, you have no idea. Everything all this means to me. I wish I could commission every single one of you to handwrite me your own Magnum Opus about what the UFC might've meant to you. You can do that, if you want. I'd certainly appreciate it.
As the taxicab drove me home, "Beast of Burden" by the Rolling Stones came on the radio, and I damn near started to cry, but didn't. The UFC was my Beast of Burden, and also, I was my own. Farewell UFC, and Farewell Complex October. Can life please clarify itself to me now? TOMORROW MORNING WHATEVER. What actually matters:
I AM THE ULTIMATE FASHION CHAMPION.
And tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.
Laura Jane Faulds
October 31st, 2008
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