It’s only fitting.

But oh, how impatient it makes me.


I want this season to be over. I wanted last season to be over too, with its shapeless baby doll madness, but it just cascaded into this season, dripping with ruffles. What is the point of women lining up for laser lipo, only to submerge the results in fifteen layers of pleats?

And the leggings. Stop the leggings, please. If a woman wears a sack, she cannot salvage her shape with leggings. I am being grouchy. I used to wear leggings, when they first came around on the Wheel of Fashion. Perhaps I just can’t bear to see my past overtaking me in Glorietta, streams of young women wearing loose shirts lettered with “Peace Love Rock n Roll” and “Blow Me” atop their leggings and Crayola pumps.

“I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.” I shall start my own clothing line, more likely. Every piece will be black, nipped in at the waist, forgiving of middle-age lumps, and have an embroidered skull somewhere, like a hidden Mickey.

Barring that, I will hunt down Anne Bichelmeir’s designs. Verso at the Landmark and Verve at Cinderella are hers, rebranded for the two shops. They droop on hangers. When worn, they are flattering and easy, thanks to the generous use of stretch, the smartness of the cut, and the absence of encrustations.  She does have her sequin-and-rhinestone moments, but once in a while a girl needs to go overboard.