Last week, the fashion world gifted us with this little thing they like to call their “Resort Collections.” Basically, resortwear is like waving an Hermès-printed flag that says you are rich as fuck. As in: “here are the clothes I will wear when I casually fly to Dubai/St Barth’s in the middle of January for a relaxing vaca” or: “oh fuck, we need to jet to Anguilla to sort out our relationship problems (I’m looking at you, Brad Pitt & Jennifer Aniston).
Per usual, some of the things that popped up on the runways were heinous shit that Aubrey O’Day would wear while headlining the Danity Kane world tour on the Carnival Cruise or at the Sandals resort.
Badgley Mischka: Are you supposed to wear this on your trip to the forests of Fern Gully? If I wanted moth wings sprouting off of my clothes, I would just take a stroll in my grandma’s basement. My only thought is that like maybe this can serve as a flotation device if you drunkenly topple over the side of the yacht.
Louis Vuitton: Props to Louie for paying homage to Lady Gaga & geriatric Japanese tourists all in one outfit. Like clearly I am going to get comp bottle service at the island discothèque if I roll up wearing what looks to be one of those cones they put on ADD dogs so they won’t scratch themselves. Plus, I’m sure that the gorgeous material of the coat is comparable to the scratchy sheet one can find at the neighborhood gynecologist’s office.
Fuck it. I just want to cut a rug in the Gaga clogs.
Céline: Again with the hospital gown as a shirt shit. P.S. Was this show held in a fucking parking garage or the backlot of Chernoybl Diaries?
Tory Burch: Why the fuck is this Burch Bitch without her usual witch buckle shoes? Like I guess Tory Burch’s gals are taking their resortwear to Guatemala for some service trip where they build houses? That would explain the Tom’s knockoffs. But what really gets me is the Free People-esque exposed bra. I really bonded with the locals when I showed them my tits underneath my military jacket. It was like the perfect mix between Che Guevara and Jane Goodall, you know what I mean?
Gucci: 1997 called and it wants its flower motif back. But actually. The Gucci folks got bored and just recycled their design from 1997. Fine and dandy if you are headed to an Evanescence Reggaeton coverband concert in Aruba.
Givenchy: Psychedelic drugs, y’all. Maybe the sartorial genius of this dress is lost on me, but when you craft something that is a fucking optical clusterfuck and assaults my vision, it is pretty hard for me to imagine wearing it on vaca. I feel like I’m in 4th grade again, and trying to solve one of those optical illusion pictures: Oooh where are her arms?
Cynthia Rowley: Nothing says resort like Mylar balloons, right Cynth? Clearly I want to sound like a fucking Lays bag when I saunter down the beach, or at the very least look like an extra in Zenon Girl of the 21st century. But whatevs, because there’s a balloon casually following me like the plastic bag in American Beauty.
Chanel: Tranny Antoinette 2012. I mean this shit obviously makes fun of itself—did Betsey Johnson break into the Chanel studios or something and work some crackhead wizadry? I haven’t seen this much powder blue and tulle since 10th grade prom.