The Fugly


I feel like Ms Whitney Port here, by virtue of being very young and tall and lanky, is one of the few people on earth who can kind of truly pull off these jeans:

Like, I get them. I still think they look like the jeans I wear to garden in, and that — at best — they’re really too casual for anything other than daytime running around town, but I GET IT. We’re all wearing our fat jeans out and about right now and that’s okay. It’s temporary. In fact, my theory is that this is a natural next step from how we all started wearing big floaty tops and dresses a few years ago and haven’t entirely stopped: it’s because we all realized that wearing something that didn’t require sucking in our stomachs constantly was DELIGHTFUL. I guarantee, in fact, that I am going to get a pair very much like these at some point — because I am sadly prone to following jeans trends, with the exception of the high-waisted, because I am not totally out of my mind — and that there will then be a point where I am wearing them and I catch sight of myself in a mirror out at the market or whatever and I think to myself, “JESUS CHRIST THESE JEANS ADD TEN POUNDS TO ME WHAT AM I DOING?” but then I’ll be out and about and stuck in them for at least the next hour and then we’ll all be filled with pants-related-regret. I’ll let you know when that happens. But this is not about her jeans, contrary to what you might have anticipated after reading all that. It is not about her matchy-matchy black-and-white color scheme. It is about her freaking headband. It looks like a spitball on her head.  Stop the headband madness, girls. None of us are Blair Waldorf.

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