I remembered my best friend the other day. She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever mingled with during my college days. She told me about what she felt while attending a fashion show – in a ringside seat. Read her musing, by way of “pouting your lips while reading.”
For a minute I thought the models had lost out. Or maybe I was facing the wrong way. The huge blot of passionate pink behind me deserved a second look, if not a few hundred more. Her dress, if I may refer to it in passing, was a magnificent monstrosity of ruffles, beads, ruches and stitches; her face a palette from one of Van Gogh’s particularly crazed moods.
Or should I turn my chair East, and face the multicolored splendor of “Pity-ya”? (Apologies to Michelangelo).
The 48-degree angle was also nice. Apart from the slight discomfort, owing to half-sitting on my neighbor’s lap. I would enjoy looking at the lady with white skin.
Or should I…
“Could you, for God’s sake, sit still lady?”
“I’m so sorry,” I say sweetly, “but I thought this was the real show.”
What is it about attending a fashion show that makes all of us declare war on sense and sobriety? As if attending a voodoo session, we dress and do up our faces to look like creatures possessed, who will any minute begin to writhe on the floor and roll their eyes to some throbbing mumbo-jumbo, as if to exorcise the little green monsters in the head. Thank God for the smudge-proof mascara, moisturizing eye shadow, and long-lasting lipstick. What would we do without these small mercies in life?
The thought of other women on stage, beautiful, lissome, with never-ending legs, dressed in exotic clothes, like rare birds of paradise fluttering provocatively on glossy branches, seems to rob us of all objectivity. Instead of being mere spectators to an event, we try to become the objects of attention ourselves.
There is nothing wrong with dressing to kill; it’s a happy death indeed that comes from the lethal arsenal of good looks combined with good taste. But when a public appearance becomes an occasion to plume one’s insecurities, the brighter the better, taste goes for a toss.
There is no point in envying the models on stage; it’s their business to look good, they are there because they look good. So, how about sitting back, relaxing, and enjoying the show, instead of being in a constant state of anxiety whether anybody is looking at you or not?
Each woman has her own kind of appeal, and while it may not be the kind to set the sky on fire, it’s not going to work for her either, if she hollers the battle cry and dons war-paint every time another beautiful woman is around.
The idea is not to simply draw attention, that’s the easiest bait for anybody to bite, but to draw the right kind of attention, and that can be achieved by an honest appraisal of your looks, the suitability of certain fashions for your body, and a healthy dose of self-esteem.
And there are times when it is infinitely more pleasurable to put your feet up, give up the unequal struggle and enjoy a chance to see rather than be seen.
Like they say, if you can’t join them, dear ladies, give them a big hand.
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