Thread: The Glamour Bug

Last week, I caught the Glamour Bug.

Not to worry. I catch this thing every year, almost always in October, as soon as “Spring Racing Fever” digs its manicured claws into the wardrobes of Melbourne. The Glamour Bug is a peculiar virus, in that, whilst laying dormant throughout the May through August period, its symptoms lead the patient to believe they lead a life of glamour (and possibly permanent residency on Flemington) and thus need the wardrobe of elaborate dresses and accessories to match, where in actual fact, they do not.

Take a good friend of mine, for example. Each year, gripped with the bug, she hits the shopping centres as soon as window displays declare the “party season” official underway, stocking up on dresses of every ilk: the obligatory “races” dress, usually printed and always complete with headpiece, shoe, jacket and at times, glove, hosiery and umbrella selection; the “summer garden party” slash “Sunday lunch at unknown sprawling estate” dress, often floral and again, complete with clutch, jewellery and bolero assortment. And then of course, every few years she buys an ultra-glamorous and typically “more expensive than I can really afford but I’m still living in denial over the impending recession” dress, bought for the occasion when she is personally invited to attend an A-list dinner party with appearances from Nicole and Keith, Russel and Danielle and Baz and Catherine Martin, possibly held at the Lodge. Not to mention supplemental purchases for the multitude of dinners, cocktail parties, intimate soirees, weddings of friends yet to be in committed and long-term relationships, and opening nights at the Opera.

Yeah, right.

Of course, my wonderful friend is an extreme example, but similar symptoms descend upon me every October when I become convinced that I (the girl who spends a large majority of the year in jeans, 2 for $20 tank tops and cardigans circa 2002) require a wardrobe rivalling J.Lo’s or perhaps Gwenyth’s on Oscars Eve. What’s more, the Glamour Bug’s reach does not end at just dresses, but extends to camis too delicate for jeans, caftans too dressy for any location outside of Monaco, and heels to high to, well, walk in. And as the bug subsides in the New Year, knocked out by the potent antibiotic of boyfriend/husband guilt, and as the beaded dresses of Spring leave the shelves to make way for the practical cotton sundress, the sufferer is left for the remainder of the year with an array of dresses, headpieces and silky boleros, gathering dust.

Contrary to what you might think, being struck with the Glamour Bug is not necessarily a bad thing. Sure, a large percentage of the resulting dresses and accessories go unworn for most of the year, as I fill my bustling social calendar with pizza nights in front of the T.V. and evenings at the pub, but at least I’ll look uber sophisticated when Oprah and Gale knock on my door as I’m doing the dishes.

Thank goodness for that.

I would love to know what you guys think

That is absolutely adorable. I didn't realize there was a name for my, ehmm, "particular malody". ;p

I think some of your sentences are a bit drawn out. I would just go back through, read it aloud, and break a few of them down.

Otherwise, the wording is phenominal and funny. The article is a definite attention getter, at least from a woman's standpoint. And I think you might have discovered the name of a very wide-spread disease! Kudos to you!

*clap*clap*clap*

much love;

venus