You wouldn’t stick a pot-bellied pig in a crop top, would you? Or would you? After some minor cogitation of at least two or three minutes, I have concluded that, in fact, the pot-bellied pig is the perfect candidate for some crop top action. In my a recent post, Style Savant, I compared my narrow shoulders to that of a bonobo chimp. I envy the pot-bellied pig. Her lifestyle, her uninhibited attitude towards body image, her fearlessness. She displays her majestic corpulence like a medal of bravery (not to be confused with the Denny Gold Medal of sausage fame) that she wears with pride. Many Irish girls who are not slave to the fake tan trend (although I admit I am wearing a mild slick of Cocoa Brown one hour tan in these photos) will join with me in sisterly solidarity and identify with the complicated relationship I wrestle with my flanks. Those mottled rubicund, stretch-marked thighs, not quite Christmas hams but erring on the side of fleshy and pink, more puce than Persian are the sometimes subject of some vain discontent. How to smuggle these loins of Housekeeper’s cut compactly into some impenetrable super skinnies was the enigma I was vying to crack.
We all know that history tends to repeat itself and as loathe as I am to embrace the crop top trend, I must admit that I love this River Island top with my high-waisted Joni jeans. Although, this dalliance with the 90s redux unnerves me. What next? The nineties were not my most treasured of fashion moments and their re-entry into sartorial culture may spell trouble for the average Irish woman like myself. Reflecting back on the decade, it was one in which I had an almighty crush on the red Mighty Morphin Power Ranger (his lip sync skills were out of this world), I wore mood rings which hardly ever changed from grey and my favourite past-time was slapping bracelets on my wrist. My beauty regime consisted of blue glitter hair mascara, lashing of bronzer and fake freckles smattered across my nose and cheeks. I wore my hair like I was a serial felon, slicked back within an inch of its life into a high pony with two greased down bits over the eyes. So revisiting this trend was somewhat traumatic for me. The last time I wore high-waisted pants was during a dark period when I had a failed mini-company called ‘Chokers’ which made a loss by charging less for the finished product than the raw materials. On a side note, I was doing a lot of rollerblading at the time. However, once one makes the transition into her dirty thirties, it no longer seems appropriate to wear hipster trousers. Unless taking part in an Alexander McQueen retrospective, the builder’s bum is officially out. Despite my childless status, it was time for Mom Jeans. I decided to cave. Initially, I felt as if I had an arse that went on for miles. But upon further reflection in the Topshop changing room, I began to see the benefits of these hide-all jeans. I could now eat all the pies at lunch time and hide any peekaboo bulge.
I spoke before about my delusions of grandeur. I like to live a champagne lifestyle on a shoestring budget. During the harsh college season of 2002, I opted to take part in some medical trials in order to buy a GHD straightener. All I had to do was prove that I had a cough which would qualify me for the testing of a new pharmaceutical drug. The fateful moment came and I employed my greatest acting skills, mimicing what I thought to be the dying cough of Victorian prostitute with consumption. However, the tester was not convinced. Cast out like a typhoid carrier, I performed the walk of shame past all my friends who had managed to pull it off. I was mortified. A pariah amongst my peers, I had failed to sell my throat for money. One of the successful candidates developed a plague of eye warts post-trial so it may have been a lucky escape. A friend of mine was also saving to buy a GHD at the time and opted to eat porridge at every meal for six weeks. By the end of that time, not only was she grey and hideously cranky, she had developed scurvy. Luckily enough, this Nanette Lepore coat was a present from my sister who was talented enough to have a successful career that allowed her to buy some designer clothes without the guilt that plagues me, street urchin that I am.
My bag was a gift from the lovely Sarah O’ Hegarty, fashion editor at Irish Tatler who is so stylish that I like to stare at her outfits from my desk and swoon. Unfortunately for me, dribbling on your colleagues isn’t the easiest way to make friends. But still, I love my mini Longchamp.
I love the brocade detailing on this cropped blouse from River Island. A designer I’m loving at the moment is Jonathan Simkhai and this top reminded me of his uptown feminine style. He is available to buy in the Designer Rooms at Brown Thomas. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jonathan himself contacted me after this blog post. Shop my look below.
All photos by David Smith of the Smith family. No middle name, no frills, just pure and simple David.
Coat: Nanette Lepore. (www.nanettelepore.com) Approximately €500, gifted to me by my sister. Similar Styles below:
Moncler coat here.
Marni coat here.
Jeans: Moto black Joni jeans, high-waisted, Topshop, €58. Available in store or online here.
Top: Embroidered hem tank top, River Island, €25. Available currently here.
Shoes: Office, previous season.
Bag: Longchamp from Arnotts, €68. Same style here.