The Goldfish Analogy

Fashion. Pet goldfish. Fashion. Pet goldfish. It’s all in the same. You can look but you can’t play. For the lot of us, anyway.

Whether it’s worth the $1,695 Rosie Assoulin top or the 25 cent goldfish, hear me out.

You stroll through PetSmart, committing to your ‘I should get a fish’ idea if only to prove you CAN follow through. You pass the animals that scream annoying responsibility (looking at you, Kia Soul representatives) and the snakes hankering to star on that reality show “Fatal Attractions” until you find yourself staring into a tank of goldfish next to two frat boys scooping the residents in mass for their beach party.

You take your time cherry-picking that goldfish because you know, like a white-tee, it’d be nutty to assume one is no different from another. You waltz that fish home, name it, “hey buddy” it, covet it, place it where you can admire its magnificence. And now what? You can’t play with it. You’ll kill it. You can’t hug it. We know what happens in Of Mice and Men. It only exists for you to look at and adore with distance, keeping its glory alive, without any love in return. That selfish little fish.

Fashion week comes to an end. Well, came to an end, because like the claims of a goldfish’s attention span, fashion’s lasts about three seconds as well, which by the way, wasn’t even a bullet-pointed comparison. I peeked on shows via blogs (and tabloids about Cara Delevingne and Kendall Jenner, duh), perpetually returning to looks I worshipped. Ones I wholeheartedly desired to own, to wear, to play in. Well, guess what, I can’t. My bank account is sitting at sea level because I spent $30 making a buffet out of Domino’s….so you might argue I’m not in a position to afford that $1,695 balloon sleeve top. Yet, even if I could, I still couldn’t play. I’d look in the mirror and, between my D-cup boobs that can only be hidden by darkness and my legs of the ottoman variety (furniture, not empire), conclude I’d be a frontrunner for an episode in a fashion adaptation of “Fatal Attractions.” Killing it. Not to be mistaken with killin’ it. It’s as if I haven’t learned this before- unless you have boobs existing in the non-existing range and -not or- legs longer than Sunday mass, fashion exists only for you to look at and adore, keeping its glory alive, without any love in return. Like that selfish little fish.

I know. I know. I can feel the breeze of arms flying up in the air accompanied by judgements accusing me of not supporting women and how I’m succumbing to the fashion industry’s unrealistic ideals about a girl’s body. Wrong. I love my body. I’ve no reason to complain. So put your arms down and support me, woman. When my boobs and legs stop me from playing, then no, I certainly do not love my body; I manage it. Because when it comes down to it, my sense of style remains more important to me and the expression of who I am than my body does; and I refuse to change who I am for the sake of embracing big tits in a body-con cutout. Just as I don’t harbor plans to stop embracing the fashion world and it’s enticing cocoon because of my body, either.

Take my ‘aha!’ comparison for what it is and bring on the fish! That one with bulging eyes may just have a little love to give.


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