There may never be a time when I don’t refer to Connie Britton as Tami Taylor. And that is a compliment. I wish Tami Taylor could be my life coach. Maybe she could coach me on how to snap out of a post-awards-show mental funk. Because lately, with every picture, the opinion I go into it with is not the opinion I end up with, and that’s why I’ve been putting a lot of stuff to a vote. I am feeling wishy-washy and wrung out. But I’m going to try and stick to this: Tami Taylor looks great.
It’s a pretty red, it’s romantic and floaty, it’s different than what she usually wears, and the leg slit is showing off some seriously fierce shoes. But why the expression of resignation? Is it because she knows the second she turns sideways I am going to see A Secret?
Those appear to be… khaki strips. Why are they there? This dress did not need them. They look like the designer ran out of red, which can’t be possible, because there was enough red everywhere else for about forty other people to swaddle themselves in it. But it IS kind of slimming, like a bonus-body-sculpt. But it’s just not NECESSARY, is it? And is that bow kind of dopey or does it just add to the aesthetics? Sigh. I am trying not to flip-flop like a lame politician. I want to stand firm. I like this. I LIKE THIS. BE STRONG. BE STRONG LIKE WHEN TYRA BANKS WENT TO PARIS WHEN SHE WAS SEVENTEEN OR WHATEVER AND HAD TO MODEL ALL BY HERSELF.
Phew. I think that worked. There is no more bracing smack than being reminded that things could be worse — that I could be an incredibly gorgeous teenager being paid to model and live in France, the horror, the horror. I’m just going to decide this is good and publish this and then maybe take a nap.