I’ve been trying to disassociate the idea of leopard print with my memory of bad outfits from the late eighties, with their garish colors, synthetic fabrics and wide, coke-altered eyes.
If I really think about it, the reason I ran screaming from animal print wasn’t the eighties: it was the gaudy, self-esteem deprived women who kept wearing leopard print into the nineties. That print was like a beacon that screamed, “Warning! These women have fake nails that are too long, and they will give you a smile just as fake before they back away, thinking ‘get the hell away from me, you dirty child.’ Stay. Away.”
But my memories, almost twenty years old, aren’t really fair to animal print, now are they?
It helps that the cut and shape of this shirt is so flattering: the arms hang loose, but are sewn just close enough to the side of my body and under my arm so I don’t feel too exposed. The neckline has tiny, lays-over-your-bust-perfectly pleats, and the sleeves are slightly scalloped at the edges.
Cans. I hunt them.
This top is also sheer – and I love sheer – so I can play the print up or down based on what I wear underneath. Today it was a simple black camisole. Nothin’ fancy!
What is fancy is my baby pink belt, which is older than sin and coming apart, and my birthday present, a pair of high-waist pleated shorts from Alloy. Fashion serendipity.