When and wear

Every year I wait with bated breath, well more like chapped lips and half-bitten fingernails, to be proven wrong. “This will be the year!” I say. “I can feel it.” Much like every time I drop my tickets in a wedding social auction. My optimism is really just disguised denial, and disappointment only rears its repulsive and all too accurate head.
I’m talking about a derivative of the F-word: “February.”
The month of love, that so many of us are devoted to hating, and hating the people who love it.
Valentine’s day, Groundhog Day, Louis Riel Day, couple-coated Cineplex’s, Bill Murray movie marathons, destination less and equally reading less reading week. Did I mention the month for commercial tycoons to parade around cardboard cut-outs, high-calorie commitment-coloured candies or singled out singles and equally victimized boyfriend’s wallets? And how about February’s silent R? Anyone? Could be it worse? My mom says it can always be worse, and she’s never been more right (pouring kerosene on the furious fire that is February).
What kills me come February is that all of the (fashion) world has sprung into spring, but not here. Catalogues are campaigning T-strap sandals, “techno tie dye,” certified organic cotton, fringed frocks, polka dot Peter Som shorts and breezy blouses, regardless of whether wide rodents saw their shadows. And saw their shadows, the teases, they didn’t. So, in the end, we see no end in sight. Alas, each year after crossing my fingers ever so tightly, we are yet again sentenced to six more weeks of salting streets, while fashion empires and above zero style sovereigns leap ahead and pour salt into our already open wounds. We’re cast to months more of stocking up on bronzer, rings and rubber boots to ease our glass-half-empty spring outlooks, while elsewhere, warm weather 20-somethings are touting Proenza Schouler mini sacs (crowned “the ultimate spring bag”) in Tom Ford shades and T-strap sandals.
But as we lay feeling sorry for ourselves still wrapped in polyester’s arm, thinking, “Whoever made this A.D.D., O.C.D., (LSD?), S.A.D.-inducing month only 28 days” — be mine? It can always be worse.
This February was worse. The entire fashion world hung their heads as mid February rolled in. It wasn’t the weather, or the cardboard cut-out hearts, or the commitment coloured calorie. Instead February marked a deficit in design. On Feb. 11, 2010, the cream of the crop, the top of the top, famed fashion designer Alexander McQueen was found dead. Born in London to the son of a taxi driver, McQueen was born to create. He graduated from St. Martin’s College and was appointed the head designer of the Givenchy label before founding his highly successful lines: Mcqueen and McQ, which Gucci bought a bulk of stock in. His clients included Prince Charles, Lady Gaga, Rihanna and Janet Jackson to name very few. McQueen, who was the mad scientist of the fashion community and winner of British Designer of the Year four times over, was known for his eccentric attention-catching designs including structured figurine-like dresses in psychedelic fabrics, headpieces made of trash and 10-inch heels shaped like armadillos. Most remember his ensemble that Janet wore in her “wardrobe malfunction” Superbowl event of ‘04. Coroners are led to believe his death was a suicide, just weeks before London Fashion Week.
Could it be worse? Ask me next February.