Fashion Fops

I have to admit that I love fashion, fabrics and all of the foolery that goes with it. To look at only. Not that I could afford a pair of sunglasses or a keyring with a designer name. Still, I love to look. My looking isn't kind. I find it hugely comical to see the red carpet acres of fabric adorning pop singers and movie stars whose trains and high heels are the funniest things since the first Mickey Mouse. Of course, it is for entertainment only. Then there is The fashion magazine that takes itself so seriously that comes to mind. If one wants to be on the cover, it is essential that one diet cruelly for at least six months so that the maven of its pages, can peer beyond her curtain of The signature hairdo to deign a nod of approval or not. Only then, can the scrawny diet-boned bodies be exposed to her cameras. The whole silly mess of gowns that are so ridiculous, ones that can never be worn off the runways, as admitted by their designers, are indicators of how completely distant we, in fantasy, are from committing to cleaning up the planet. The voluminous gowns that float into New York venues costing millions are not very far off physically from other humans suffering under addictions and poverty. I am sickened. It brings to mind, a street man who stood outside the opera with folk leaving a performance. His cardboard sign said, "Don't ignore me." When I gaze at the pages of magazines that are not of fashion festooned men and women airbrushed into Barbie shapes, I see the real people of this kind who hide under the sequins and lace and body-toned catsuits. They have lumps and bumps and grapefruit skin and lines and little wrinkles that have escaped the Botox. They are just like us, they are themselves, the real themselves.  It is no wonder, that when they hit the streets no one recognises them. The funniest one of all, and this is not a popular view, is a certain woman who is naturally beautiful with a body that is fullsome but especially in the southern hemisphere area. She seems a "nice" lady and with help is apparently, a good business woman. But she is also one who is completely absorbed in her own appearance. She and her shopping pals, as seen in The magazine, put on their fish faces that must not smile or be in danger of serious skin cracking issues, tell their cyber fans how to put on layers of make-up and yards of pricey garments. Sadly, some women emulate them, but when they are used as models for younger women to follow, I draw the line. Life is real. It's not a dream. Real life is not about cloth, serums, airbrushing and Spanx. It's about getting an education of choice, landing a job, living a green lifestyle and being a fine family member if not the maker of one. Sounds easy, but it takes work and sacrifice. It doesn't include hiring some other woman under veiled excuses, to birth your children. It doesn't include spending what could be an annual salary on a logo purse or getting your skin plumped up or paying thousands for a spoiled child's birthday party. Fashion is merely for fun, beauty is deeper than the epidermis.