Possibly the best thing that happened to me yesterday was the beginning of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual costume ball, because I have never seen a more glorious combination of high fashion and head injuries. It was magnificent. About every ten seconds, Jessica and I would fire another IM to each other that said some close variation of the following: “OH MY GOD, [Insert Celebrity Name Here]. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
We burned many an ellipsis on Leighton Meester here, and used block letters to the point where we should’ve just hit Caps Lock to keep from scratching the word “Shift” off of that key.
WHAT. IS. THIS? Were it MERELY the dress part, I could perhaps overlook the overall color palette evoking the disaster that ensues when children mix their watercolors. But no. It’s not just the dress. It’s the red metallic leggings with paisley lace creeping down them like a rare and woeful skin disease, all of which contribute to Leighton looking like she’s wearing a matador’s living-room wallpaper. Not to mention the twee shoes with ankle bows, and the kind of hair you’d see on a kid making her first communion. Precisely what Leighton is communing with here — other than possibly a large vat of Elmer’s Glue emitting potent brain-scrambling fumes — I cannot say. So kids, take a lesson: Friends don’t let friends drink and dress. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need a lot of Excedrin.