I was wearing black yoga pants and a big maroon cable-knit grandpa pullover, and my hair was wisping (more like straggling) out of my so-tight-I-look-bald french braid. I think I was also wearing running shoes.
I shouldered my bright purple backpack, pretending I was totally too cool for the other Megabus passengers, and squinted up to figure out where the heck I was. That's when I saw them.
Gorgeous fashion students. Amazon-tall. Stabbing the sidewalk in four inch heels, garbed in luxurious dark fabrics, with perfect skin and stylishly un-styled hair, carrying bolts of other expensive looking fabric. I shrank down as I dialed my dad's number and wiped some sandwich crumbs off my sweater, whisper-begging, "Which way to the 1 train?" while they strode past me, laughing. But not at me. I hope.
Don't get me wrong: I like fashion, and usually I put a lot of effort into my outfits. (My old roommate used to make fun of me because I would spend an hour trying on different combinations just to go to class.) But you can just tell when clothes are expensive. The fabrics are smoother, the colors look more purposeful and less accidentally washed-out, the cuts are more precise, the drapes more dignified. Or maybe it's just the wearers' confidence. In any case, my clothes do not look like that. Probably never will.
Alas, Sartorialist. Your beautiful women are less personally threatening, but their style will always be just as unattainable.
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