My name is Morgan and I busted a tunic.
Those of you who love gofugyourself as much as I do know that they recently asked for tales of real life fuggery, even giving out an email address to send these loathsome stories to. This is my story (dong dong).
To the Fug Girls,
You asked to hear tales of utter fuggishness, stories of the
good turned fugly. So I give you my story.
My name is Morgan and I busted a tunic.
I admit, when I saw the commercial, I thought that it was
quite possibly the most annoying, stupid thing I had every
seen. But then I started thinking--cute bathing suit
cover-up maybe? So while at the mall with my unbelievably
cheap husband, I did the unthinkable. I willingly gave up my
$19.50, and took home a bright green Old Navy tunic with
silver spangles around the neck and sleeves.
Just seeing it here brings tears to my eyes.
Yes, what started out as a good idea--covering up my goodies
at the beach--turned into something else. I
started--gasp--wearing the thing. I wore it to school. I
wore it to the grocery store. I wore it with jeans, with
chinos, with an equally hideous linen skirt. I didn't think
a thing about it, even ignoring said husband when he lovingly
reminded me that I looked like a gay Kermit the Frog. I felt
young and hip--like Sienna Miller, gosh darn it!!! At the
peak of it, I was abusing the tunic at least once a week.
But then I found myself at the dubiously titled Dirty Dick's
Crabshack, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, silently
weeping. I was wearing the tunic and a pair of dark denim
trousers. I had on a pair of brightly colored thong sandals
and big silver earrings. My hair had been coiffed into a
loose oh-so-bohemian loop. I looked like a cross between my
crazy aunt who summers at Boynton Beach and one of those
Indian transvestites that dances at weddings. I looked like
Britney Spears after a three day Cheeto/Colt 45 bender. I
knew I had hit rock bottom.
So it's been over a month now, and I have to say that I am
clean and tunic free. It sits in my closet as a reminder of
the dangerous path that cheap clothes can take you on. I
have new clothes now--ones that fit, mind you--and I've moved
on, but I will always remember my rock bottom, the moment
that I knew the true meaning of the word "fugly."
Now let's all think Jeebus that I didn't buy one of those
super-freak skirts.
Your friend in fug,
Morgan
To the Fug Girls,
You asked to hear tales of utter fuggishness, stories of the
good turned fugly. So I give you my story.
My name is Morgan and I busted a tunic.
I admit, when I saw the commercial, I thought that it was
quite possibly the most annoying, stupid thing I had every
seen. But then I started thinking--cute bathing suit
cover-up maybe? So while at the mall with my unbelievably
cheap husband, I did the unthinkable. I willingly gave up my
$19.50, and took home a bright green Old Navy tunic with
silver spangles around the neck and sleeves.
Just seeing it here brings tears to my eyes.
Yes, what started out as a good idea--covering up my goodies
at the beach--turned into something else. I
started--gasp--wearing the thing. I wore it to school. I
wore it to the grocery store. I wore it with jeans, with
chinos, with an equally hideous linen skirt. I didn't think
a thing about it, even ignoring said husband when he lovingly
reminded me that I looked like a gay Kermit the Frog. I felt
young and hip--like Sienna Miller, gosh darn it!!! At the
peak of it, I was abusing the tunic at least once a week.
But then I found myself at the dubiously titled Dirty Dick's
Crabshack, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, silently
weeping. I was wearing the tunic and a pair of dark denim
trousers. I had on a pair of brightly colored thong sandals
and big silver earrings. My hair had been coiffed into a
loose oh-so-bohemian loop. I looked like a cross between my
crazy aunt who summers at Boynton Beach and one of those
Indian transvestites that dances at weddings. I looked like
Britney Spears after a three day Cheeto/Colt 45 bender. I
knew I had hit rock bottom.
So it's been over a month now, and I have to say that I am
clean and tunic free. It sits in my closet as a reminder of
the dangerous path that cheap clothes can take you on. I
have new clothes now--ones that fit, mind you--and I've moved
on, but I will always remember my rock bottom, the moment
that I knew the true meaning of the word "fugly."
Now let's all think Jeebus that I didn't buy one of those
super-freak skirts.
Your friend in fug,
Morgan
posted by Southern Belle at 10:20 AM
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