For some peculiar reason, my wardrobe constantly falls apart on me. If you’ve been an active reader of The Shield this year, you may have already heard some of the horror stories. I seem to just attract disaster everywhere I go. Here are some of my worst moments from last year:
Attending the Great Gatsby picnic for an issue of Emi’s Daily Explorer was a ball. I felt like my essence was teleported to the roaring twenties. Apparently, my shoes also wanted to pretend they were from the 1920s, as they began to crumble before my eyes. Like an onion peeling away its layers, both shoes fell apart just 15 minutes into the event. Thankfully, the group banded together to perform a bit of shoe surgery, bandaging the wounds of my footwear with tape and literal band-aids. The shoes, now resembling that of a poor Victorian child, decided to live for a bit longer—up until we hit the dance floor. My moves were far too powerful for the shoes. They came apart almost perfectly; each layer of fabric and leather completely severed from the last. Shield writer Laura Lipcsei graciously offered her extra pair of boots as we headed over to In-n-out. The entire situation was pretty fantastic.
Additionally, around November, another calamity ensued. The jeans apocalypse. Following rigorous rehearsals for The Odyssey, several of my pairs of jeans began to tear in…unfavorable places. I told my mom I was going to buy new jeans. She told me to “wait until Christmas”. Christmas. One month and all my problems would be solved. The day couldn’t come any sooner. I wore the torn pairs of jeans, constantly repositioning myself to block the visibility of the small rips and holes by my hip and front area. It was extremely uncomfortable. Christmas finally came, and the jeans rained down. My wardrobe was restocked, and life, as I knew it, had returned to peace.
What’s the moral of this story? I’m not sure. All I know is that sometimes life hits you with the most humiliating fashion disaster ever known to man, and you have to suck it up and wait until Christmas for a new pair of jeans, or until Laura offers you a pair of boots.