Linen after Labor Day

While not a clothes horse, I am a natural girl in the textile sense. I prefer linen, silk, cotton, and wool. Egyptian cotton is required for my sheets and one of the greatest luxuries I can imagine is having fresh sheets on my bed daily. I do not do blends well, unless, of course, it is along the lines of silk and angora. Polyester, not even in death.

I like things not only to fit, but to feel good next to my skin. It is one of the few sensual pleasures in which I truly indulge with regularity. When purchasing clothes, I make few additions, but what I do buy must pass the criteria of quality (last more than one season), fit (at least the size I am at the moment or hope to become in the very near future), feel (already covered), and look (do I resemble a walrus in this?).

It is not necessary for me to represent the latest trend or fashion design from Paris, Milan, or anywhere else. That's not my bag, so to speak.

Thus, I tend to wear what I like and feel comfortable in rather than what nameless and faceless others dictate as hard and fast fashion rules. My style has only one mistress and Comfort is her name.

Now, I do acknowledge, at least in the peripheral sense, the fashionistas got together at some point and deemed certain things were verboten after certain times of the year. As we should all well know by now, light colors are for spring and summer and darker, more subdued colors are for fall and winter. Likewise, linen is typically a summer fabric and frowned upon when worn after Labor Day, along with those damned white shoes. (Who the hell over the age of five wears white shoes, anyway?)

Well, it is still damn hot where I am and linen is one of my favorite fabrics for living with heat and humidity. Besides, I wear linen whenever I damn well please.

Apparently, the Fashion Gods frowned upon me today and I must bear their wrath.

A colleague invited me to lunch. We dined at a very nice Asian restaurant. This colleague preferred one of the windowed booths to any number of tables scattered throughout the dining establishment. All was well until I leaned forward to scoot down the booth because the front of linen blouse caught the corner of the table and released three of the four buttons holding the front of my top together.

Only twisted fate would dictate the last button remaining would be the bottom one and not the top.

All I can say is I am damned grateful I likewise invest and indulge in attractive undergarments. As my colleague will attest, there was very little left to the imagination.

My ensemble now sports a lovely piece of silver-grey duct tape (courtesy of the toolbox in my colleague's truck) down the front of my linen blouse.

I feel so special.

Not.