I had a Peter Griffin moment this week (of Family Guy, for the unconverted), rolling my eyes at local passersby and whining, “You know, stuff like that really grinds my gears.” It grinds my gears when John Colapinto writes a nigh 10,000-word article on Karl Lagerfeld in The New Yorker that reads like an homage to a total lunatic whose personal assistant must freebase in his or her spare time to dull the pain. (Right, so whatever, it came out a month ago, I’m running behind). It grinds my gears when Lindsay Lohan makes statements about wanting to play Princess Diana in a movie. Like, let’s start with wearing underpants. But mostly, it grinds my gears when I finally have the opportunity to step out into the sunshine of a May afternoon and find myself stepping into a veritable onslaught of style blunders. Scratch that, blunders are at least interesting. This is the equivalent of fashion sandpaper.
Specifically, I’m referring to Tory Burch’s ballet flats. For those of you who don’t recognize them instantly by their signature over-sized “oh the excess” golden seal, take exhibit A, pictured above. This flat comes in a bajillion different colors, fabrics, sealants — I would imagine picking just one would be worse than shopping for bathroom paint. Somehow, over the last year or so, every woman in New York seems to have picked up a pair of these things. At least with the Christian Louboutin espadrille wedges craze, there were variations. And sometimes you weren’t even sure they were Louboutins until you saw the red sole, since so many designers were doing it. With these, it’s like — it’s this one brand of shoe! Everybody has it! It’s worse than showing up to a cocktail party and someone else is wearing the same dress because everybody is wearing the same flats as you. On the subway, at work, in a restaurant. I feel like I’m taking crazy pills! Burch is an Upper East Side socialite doing preppy-chic for kicks (granted, she has an incredible work ethic) and I need not remind you, dear reader, that an endorsement on Oprah does not a creative genius make (ahem, James Frey).
But I digress. My gears are also grinding over the revival of future chic (Lucite wedges and metallic pants? Bedford Ave is going to look like a casting call for the remake of Tron!); high-end Converse sneakers (I understand the concept of having John Varvatos designs, but the whole ethos of the beat-up sneak is its low-end price tag); and finally, tented clothing in general.
Who knows why these flights of fancy strike us on a week where we should be basking in the sunlight with (finally!) open-toed shoes. Perhaps, now you feel a weight has lifted from you, too.