Oh, Posh. Pish, Posh. You are better than this.
I’m not even talking about the jumpsuit (which I just mistyped as “dumpsuit,” which also applies in a way). It’s the hideous bottle tan, which looks like the Seinfeld episode where Kramer bastes himself in butter and then sunbathes and it makes Newman hallucinate his head on a perfectly roasted turkey. It’s the hair, which, though not as bad as during the low point of her extensions, still does nothing to enhance her the way the pixie or sassy bobs did. And it’s the makeup, which looks like someone drew on her eyebrows while she was passed out on the sofa. She is the Victoria of Yore — Yesterposh — and it makes me worried that we’re creeping back into the weird, desperate territory where she didn’t have anything to do except be photographed near David. Girl, you are a fashion mogul. And a good one. Go wash your face and exfoliate everything — and wear one of your own designs, because frankly, they are better.
You all need to know that Brooklyn is so grown-up that I feel like a shriveled old prune. Kid, you are going to break some hearts. Mom, straighten his tie.