Sounds of the seventies have been getting louder every day if you're subscribed to as many women's magazines as I am (Looking at you, Orlando Bloom), and tonight while I was flipping through InStyle the din was deafening. Vanessa Hudgens is featured in a photo spread in her best role yet: an exotic knockout girlfriend-type inspired by Bianca Jagger (my third favorite of Mick's girlfriends, if you don't count Samantha from SatC) with a variety of jumpsuits, plunging v-necks and the turban, insha'Allah the turban! "Getting a taste of Bianca's style made me want to dress like this all the time," she says, and I simply can't wait. When fashion dictates, magazines editorialize with celebrities, and when these celebrities borrow those clothes the average American can finally fucking catch on to the change after they read US Weekly in the checkouts at the grocery store.
I've been really into the excessive sassiness and bravado that seems to come with 70s style in the past year or so. It stands to reason since after all, when you're wearing platforms and wide-legs pants in a world of cocktail dresses, you can't really blend in. I went with a friend to her sorority's formal in April when her boyfriend couldn't make it wearing black wide-leg and high-waisted trousers, a black silk scoopneck tank and my highest heels, and even in a sea of Lilly Pulitzer prints I felt like the Bi(anca) of the ball. Check Gettysburg's society pages from that month for photographic evidence, and be sure to check out the picture of me stacking eight pieces of cheese in my palm "to save for later." Where those cheeses ended the night I cannot say, but I'm sure they were delicious.
This love of seventies style is definitely buttressing my infatuation with Exile on Main Street, the Rolling Stone's 1972 masterpiececlassicpieceofartalbumofalifetime recorded in the south of France that I've listened to for about three weeks straight now. My love for the Stones has been with me since birth, thanks to my classic rocking dad, but I'm not sure I really appreciated them until I really appreciated getting drunk. Unless you've had a few regrettably sloppy nights of your own, you really have no business doing anything that involves Keith Richards in any way (single exception: reading a review of his autobiography in The New Yorker, but only if you're doing it with a lot of disdain and pity).
So you're drunk in the alley with your clothes all torn
And your late night friends leave you in the cold grey dawn
That line's been sticking with me lately, because if you're anything like me (somebody with a few friends and no sense of her own alcohol tolerance levels) you've found yourself on the wrong end of a long night, and probably more than a little worse for the wear. For every hundred incredible nights you have, you're bound to have at least a few that end with you walking down a street in Aix-en-Provence yellcrying "I don't want it I don't want it I don't want it" into the sleeve that's now housing your rerung Sex on the Beach. Reringing is a term that JUST came to me for the implications of overindulgences, which for me most often appears in the form of vom -- since your drink is already paid for, this is just you paying for it again.
ex: "I just rerung my tequila shot in the bathroom."
"Yeah, this morning I got rung up again for the pitchers at the bar last night."
"I got so wasted last night I told my girlfriend's mom she's probably better in bed, guess the breakup text I just got is me reringing my drinks."
I just learned I can put French dubs and English subtitles on episodes of Sex and the City, so I think I have to run. In the spirit of the post, maybe I'll throw on a sequined nightgown (of which I have deux) so I can feel like I'm passing out in a dark corner of Studio 54 instead of sipping a white russian in a basement.
Yours in being totally high-waisted,
Thursday Girl
