May all of your Valentine’s Day kisses be covered in red lipstick.
Shot by the birthday girl, Sophie Schwartz.
Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote one of my first posts for The FYD, titled, “On the Precedents of Sluttiness… and Trying to Combat Them.” Though I think this post is one of the truest I’ve written, it slyly slips under the radar, dwindling lonely in the isolation of Internet’s past.
So one one windy, winter day when I found myself risqué-ing my outfit with the mantra that “more” is, in fact, “less,” I couldn’t help but think back to that post. I had, though not for the first time, become the subject of my own work–the piece on display behind the glass. A year ago I was pointing at myself today, clad in a chenille mini-skirt and thigh-high boots. I was fully clothed in the sluttiest way possible.
For the TL;DR sake of my previous post, I’ll sum it up for you: generally, we are led to believe that the less you wear, the more scandalous you appear. Crop tops, bikinis, booty shorts, and the like. But I proposed a revised theory in which the more you wear, the more mischievous you appear, and the more sexually appealing you become. Tell me if I’m wrong, but aren’t monokinis “sluttier” than bikinis? Is it not “sexier” to wear over-the-knee boots with a short skirt than it is to wear my Supergas with a short skirt? Neglect that point–though I find tennis sneakers to be pretty sexy, the larger public likely doesn’t agree. But what if I were to wear shorter boots? It wouldn’t look as… good. It just wouldn’t.
I propose(d) that the images men create based on our sneak previews are more exciting than the skin actually behind all the leather, velvet, and denim. Tell me–am I wrong? And should I be slut-shaming myself for wearing my thigh-highs with my mini skirt?
Shot by the ever-lovely Sophie Schwartz.
I believe there is only one true rule to fashion: look good.
Don’t mix prints, they said. Don’t wear silver with gold jewelry, they said. Don’t wear white after Labor Day, they said. And screw all of that bullshit, I said.
I understand why you’d want to savor your white in the trying months that your thighs are stuck together by perspiration. Fine, take advantage of all clothing light and breezy when the weather deems it appropriate. But why can’t you wear white in the winter? We don’t let Mother Nature control our menstrual cramps–we take Advil and eat chocolate for that. So why should we let her restrict the way we dress? We must create our own rebellious fashion (by wearing white in the winter, if you will). Or else, fashion will never be created.
In order to deserve the respect of rule-breaking, then thou shalt not break the rules poorly. If you’re going to mix patterns and patches, or if you’re going to wear white in a snowstorm, then do it well. Look good.
Shot by the most fabulous Sophie Schwartz.
I can’t even say the word “Tobi” without loling. Seriously.
I felt that it was time to write an ode to Tobi, our beloved online shopping friend. Old wealthy men indulge themselves in Russian mail-order brides. Every college girl indulges herself in mail-order Tobi. It’s just the way it is.
Tobi is odd because it doesn’t exist in real life. It’s like some warehouse in California where all of your wildest 50% off dreams come true. At first, Tobi attacked the newsfeeds of girls around the country. I would use the term “rape,” because if you remember what I’m talking about, it was literally that bad. However my (extremely) liberal arts college really doesn’t approve of using that term lightly so I took it out of my vocabulary. Whoever is the chief over there is actually a genius, and uses an incredible marketing strategy. In order to get the ridiculously huge discount on already fairly-priced clothing, you have to link Tobi to your Facebook. Great for you, Tobi, but shitty for us.
From then on, Tobi is attached to you by something seemingly as strong as an umbilical cord. Every time you “like” something on Tobi from that moment on, or any time you put something in your cart, essentially all of Facebook will automatically see it. It’s really awkward. Like, no, I don’t want to know what you’re shopping for and yeah, it’ll be a little weird when I see you wearing that out the next weekend.
Tobi sends you daily emails which I have not attempted to unsubscribe from because I’m automatically assuming that there is no physical way to unsubscribe, no matter how hard I try. Tobi is clingy as f—. Let me guess–today, you got an email with the subject line, “50 new items today – 30% off the first 7 days for you!” And let me also guess–you get that email on the effing daily.
The funniest thing is when you see someone wearing something and it’s clearly from Tobi. This is easily recognized as Tobi thinks that it’s OK to make a million different articles of clothing that all look exactly the same but are in different forms (dress version and shirt version… and tank top version) and colors. The site doesn’t even have an “If you like this, you might also like…” function because everything looks exactly the same so that wouldn’t even be helpful.
Once, I was visiting a “friend” at an anonymous Big Ten school, and we were going out for the night. While walking outside, we encountered four girls emerging from a freshman dorm. I pointed at each of them, “That’s from Tobi, that’s from Tobi, that’s from Tobi, and that’s from Tobi.” They were all wearing the same thing in different colors, and it was the most ridiculous thing ever.
That same night, I also happened to be wearing Tobi. I was wearing the long-sleeved version of the exact same shirt that they were wearing, obv:
Now do you know the shirt that I’m referring to? Of course you do.
Tobi, we love you for being convenient. We also hate you for being both unoriginal and a pain in the ass. You’re great for staple tops, I suppose. Hmph.
Yes, the plural of “bandeau” is “bandeaux,” and no, I do not have dyslexia nor think that I’m French.
Bandeaux were a brilliant invention until some sorority girls decided to wear them as shirts. Then, they became [somewhat] acceptable as crop tops, and essentially all hell broke loose. The sanctity in the ingenious purpose a bandeau was originally supposed to serve became tainted by fifty shades of neon and a hundred shades of “my high wasted shorts compensate for the fact that I’m literally wearing a bra to a social event, right?”
My freshman year of high school, I wrote a letter to myself with the intention of opening it my senior year. In it, I said, “You are wearing a colorful, beaded Free People dress, no bra (just a bandeaux).” Clearly my spelling was a little off back in the day, but my sense of sensible style was right on point.
Bandeaux are excellent for use when you are wearing a low-cut shirt (except for the fact that the newest trend after the peak of the bandeau was to wear ridiculously cut shirts with your bra just hangin’ out there to give the whole world a big hello) or, for my personal favorite purpose, when you just don’t feel like wearing a bra. You all know you love it, for comfort and for style–while everyone likes the look of “Bra!!!!!!!” no one likes the look of “Bra Straps!!!!!!”.
Bandeaux are excuses to wear a bra as a shirt or to not wear a bra at all. So if you love bras or hate bras, it’s all very win-win.
As you may or may not know, The Fro-Yo Diaries is a member of the Her Campus Blogger Network, “a curated network of blogs written by women ages 13-30 on fashion, beauty, cooking, fitness, design, lifestyle, and more” (HerCampus.com). So since we’re BFFs with Her Campus, I wanted to spread the word about a trendy gathering known as the National Intercollegiette Conference 2013. This really long title is referring to July 27th and 28th, two days in NYC in which college babes from all across the country are welcome to come and join Her Campus for tons of lectures (with super legit speakers from Cosmo, Huff Post, Glamour, Lucky, etc.), workshops, and opportunities to network/schmooze.
Her Campus teamed up with a bunch of sponsors that all sell stuff that girls like. To fill you in on the sponsors, I figured I would go through the list and tell you what you like about them. Because I know, obviously.
Girls like Chipotle because it’s fast food that you can get away with muploading without looking gross/fat/sumo/etc. but still having people question “How does she eat that but stay so thin????!!!!”
Girls like Luna bars because they taste amazing and are perfect for those of us that are not psycho enough to juice cleanse but are still interested in meal replacement with things like protein bars, fro-yo, and fro-yo.
Woodbury Common Premium Outlets
Girls like Woodbury because how can they not?
Girls like LeSportsac because if you never had a LeSportsac, did you really ever go to middle school?
Girls like Veet because when they’re eight years old and Jewish, they think the amount of leg hair they have is enough to make a small fur coat for a mouse.
You can sign up for the National Intercollegiette Conference by clicking here. HC love! And remember to bring your Veet!
Overalls have been a really large part of my life since I was a lesbian-child infatuated with Mary Kate and Ashley. I think that they are really convenient because you don’t have to struggle with finding a matching top and bottom when you wake up crusty-eyed and retainer-clad at 6:30 a.m. Instead, your biggest struggle becomes “how the hell do I go to the bathroom in these” which doesn’t apply much to me and my camel-like bladder tendencies. Since I started my lemonade-cayenne pepper-maple syrup cleanse, however, these statistics have unfortunately changed. If you have a strong bladder, and are not currently on a liquid cleanse, go for the overalls. Trust me.
Once, I watched an episode of my fave TV show, My Strange Addiction, in which a transgender human has an obsession with acting, dressing, and appearing as if he/she is a baby. See photo below:
Then, recently, I realized that I actually seem to wear one-pieced clothing, overalls included, very often in public. See photos below:
After this epiphany, I got super concerned. I have to rely on pure faith that people don’t think I, too, am addicted to being an adult baby. I’m just addicted to being chic, and spending less time picking out real outfits in the morning.
And sure, maybe I am still a little lesbian for the Olsen twins, their frail bodies, and their oversized fur coats that each cost more than my four years of Ivy League education will. But everyone is, so it doesn’t really count.