For some reason, SA Fashion Week won't let me flourish like the faux-bleu eyebrow sporting, based god of turnt down I, oh, so want to be.
Last year, I couldn't find an outfit, was running thirty minutes late and rolled up to the Crowne Plaza Rosebank, trying to pretend that my sweatpants-crop-top-and-platforms combination was a conscious sartorial decision and not a time pressed choice heavily influenced by my dad shouting at me to move it (my African Time oriented ass) or lose it (my ride). And then halfway to Rosebank, I realised I hadn't collected my ticket and not a single Checkers/Shoprite in the entire country seemed to be open.
To top it off, that was the moment my deoderant decided to find itself away from my armpits as it usually does whenever I'm incredibly stressed.
I blamed the bad mojo on my over-enthusiasm and lack of foresight so this year I had deep thinks all this week about what I would wear, what I would do, who I wanted to meet and which shows I wanted to see. Not that this mattered, of course, because (what might soon be) the curse of SAFW struck again and I got home from school at five o'clock and bullshitted my way through an outfit choice and tried to compensate with blue eyebrows and frilly socks.
This time, however, I did remember to get my tickets printed only to arrive to the Crowne Plaza to find that all the shows had been delayed due to the Armageddon dust storm forming from Hell (well, Bloomfontein - same thing though). I dabbled in optimism, however, and thought of the extra time as a chance to socialise, take pretty photos and have a fabulous night. My 2% iPhone battery and almost full SD card, however, were not on the same page. To top it all of, all the shows had been cancelled and moved to Sunday night.
That just goes to show - foresight, planning and organisation mean nothing in the real world, kids. Also, if you skip your 11:11 wishes for a whole week, it will come back to bite you.blue suede creepers last year).