This post contains claims of true love & eternal devotion for a gifted item.
Chambray shirts, way essential. Trust me. Once you own one you live in them. Open as a sort of light jacket. Buttoned up. Tucked in. Hanging out. Over swimmers in summer. Under jackets in winter. The perfect chambray shirt should be a ‘must find’ for every girl’s wardrobe. Or so says me.
My search for the perfect chambray started a while ago. I wanted light wash, soft, light and with sleeves wide enough to roll. No button gape would be a bonus but something I could live without if pushed. So it began. It took me first to New Look. With a perfect light wash option that was, unfortunately, only available in a two sizes smaller than I wanted. I bought it anyway and made it work for a year or so. In the end, the too firm arms and straining bust meant it had to go. The search continued.
Then came my first chambray true love. I picked it up secondhand from a Facebook closet sale. Barely worn this deep blue chambray shirt was made for me. It turned out to be the cornerstone of a developing relationship with its maker, the team at 17 Sundays. It washed like a dream getting slowly softer, lighter and oh so easy to throw on. We were together for years before I even realised that deep down I had my heart set on a lighter wash. So I started to look again. But like most first loves I still love my chambray, and we remain close. It’s not the chambray; it’s me.
Then in a twist of biblical proportions, perhaps that a little dramatic but stay with me, it turns out that from the very same creator as the first, THE perfect shirt would emerge. My one true love. My chambray shirt soul mate. A light wash beauty that met all my crazy criteria and more. A shirt that might as well has been made to fulfill my life’s desires. Here she is folks. Love is in the air. Even though the air is a humid 40 something degrees, I’ve committed 110%. I’m all in.
Mr Suger will need to watch his back, don’t you think? Haha.
Basic Faded Shirt – 17 Sundays {gifted, on sale now}
I have a funny story about maxi skirts actually. From my misspent youth that was absolutely not misspent. I had this mermaid hemmed, brown velour maxi skirt. It was divine. It was ridiculous really when I think about it. I wore it with ADIDAS t-shirts or loose, lightweight singlets, crazy hair and flip-flops. It hung low on my hips and gave a peek of tanned skin, often with ties to a ridiculously too small bikini hanging out the sides. I was a beach bum to the last.
One day, in my beach bum finery, I had to drive into Brisbane to collect a friend from the train station. As I stepped onto the escalator I KNEW I was in trouble. I felt the skirt grab in the steps. My mind immediately flashed to my tiny underwear as the skirt began to drag into the steps. I was too far from the emergency stop and on my own so there was no one to run for it. Uh oh!! I held the majority of the skirt firmly in my hands hoping to prevent it being sucked in. The end was near and I knew, if I don’t get this skirt out of these steps, I’m going to be skirt-less in the middle of a train station. Teeny tiny bottoms on display.
Shit. Shiiiiiiiit!
And yet, the entire time, I was trying to look all casual cool. Attempting to not display the panic at being sucked skirt-less into an escalator. I would not embarrass myself by yelling out for help. I would manage. I would make it through in a vain attempt at elegance and whimsical aloofness. I had less than a metre to go and the steps ahead of me where beginning to collapse. It was now or never. I had to either step out of my skirt and hope I could remove it OR give it an almighty tug and risk face-planting…
I chose the latter. I braced myself, the skirt and gave it a two-handed tug throwing myself into the side-rail as my skirt tore and released… The remaining steps collapsed in on themselves and I stepped confidently off the escalator. Heart racing. Skirt almost entirely intact. Underwear still on the inside. I strutted to my friends platform, grabbed them and streaked {stormed?} back out. Taking the stairs, of course.
Moral of the story? Don’t go to train stations. HA. (more…)
