Let’s get one thing clear – each birthday is a GIFT. None of this “it’s so sad, I’m another year older” BS. The preciousness of birthdays was ground into me during my twenties, during which I lost a good friend suddenly at the age of 26, three of my mentors to cancer, and I myself was nearly snuffed out.
If you subscribe to the mantra that life is a celebration, so dress accordingly, then The Birthday is the ultimate opportunity for celebratory dress – at least in theory. If I could, I’d wear the MOST outrageous outfit possible, with sparkle and a train, à la “Met Gala,” although practical constraints, like fitting through doorways and not catching on fire in the kitchen, limit birthday flamboyance.
Fear not, I tell myself, because we are in the era of Big Sleeve Energy. Google “statement sleeves” and see for yourself: giant, obnoxious sleeves are more easily procured than EVER (with the notable exception of the 1890s and any dressing room marked “Fabio”). I can pour all that birthday enthusiasm into two positively peacockish sleeves.
That silky fabric swooshed against my skin all evening. When I moved my arms, I could feel the sleeves balloon up around me and it felt so right. The borderline-outrageous pastel palette and the nearly-circus-tent pattern pushed the boundaries of good taste just enough for me to feel like I was really indulging in something.
To be clear, I didn’t wear this anywhere fancy. Rodrigo and I had a quiet dinner with my nephew, my dad, and his girlfriend at my dad’s house and it was delightful. The point here isn’t that you have to find a fancy place to go in order to feel fancy, that’s just silly. It’s only life, it’s only a celebration of the million simple and imperfect things that fit together to make your life yours, and it’s only a top with mega sleeves. So why not feel good about it?
love,
Stig.
