Gee’s been in her older sister’s shadow for a while. Like, since 1933. She heard legend of Elle’s flapper-filled carts and smooth shuttling of partiers from soirée to soirée, borough to borough, without ever so much as rattling their champagne, which they could drink whilst riding cause Elle was a “cool train.”
This past Saturday I had plans to attend an art show held in a Manhattan apartment, plans that I, a municipal employee who works in a Queens office with a “bucket truck chic” dress code, tend to find myself underdressed for. However, a combination of a successful fall shopping trip or two and a cooler-than-usual forecast after a soggy summer left me optimistic. The preceding months have found me DOA (damp on arrival) so I was very excited to actually look as I’d intended.
Then it rained and was far too warm for the cardigan of which I was so proud anyhow, but that’s actually beside the point. Even had I been the crisp, just-hip-enough vision in denim that I had in my mind, I still would have fallen into a trap that I’ve been victim to before, one which I’m calling – and you heard it here first (if not, link me) – BFMC. Brooklyn Fancy Manhattan Casual.