I’m not sure this is horrifying, not really, but as I look out the window and note that the trees are not just sagging, but actually MELTING, and that Texas summer survival suggestions often include “stop, drop and roll,” I think…better you than me, sister.
Wow. I’m not sure what level of decadence Victorian England actually aspired to, but if this was what all the fashionable ladies of London were wearing, the entire Scottish wool industry would have gone on strike. “Your dress,” this fashion would have said, “Your dress is like a potholder, and you, lady, are the pot…and how hot you are!”
Which worked well in my head, but I’m not sure how many people would like being compared, favorably or unfavorably, to a pot.
“I am WHAT, sir? Could you please repeat that? I fear the thick layer of wool muffled the tenor of your words, as well as the chill of the winter air.”
Heavy macrame bonnets. Yard upon yard of thick woolen flounces. This is a style that just won’t scale up very well.
From the side, though, I’m not reminded so much of a dress as much as the image of a pretty young lady slowly, over the course of years, being engulfed by brain coral. Or maybe some other ocean-going invertebrate, like the interior ruffles of a squid. Pinky-purple isn’t a flattering color, less so if your train weighs 750 pounds and smells sharply of a spill in a lanolin refinery.
Thrift Town near Manchacha and Stassney, Austin