“Babe, this is crazy. I’m sweating like a billy goat,” my husband tells me at The Delano’s Tory Burch presentation. He’s not lying by any stretch of the imagination — my darling, doting husband is perspiring through his freshly ironed linen shirt — even his eyebrows are sweltering (and here I thought that was an impossible feat).
Sebastian tells me that quaffing copious amounts of Vodka Sprites aren’t, “Doing the trick either.” The poor fella complains of sweating in places that shall remain nameless. You do the math. I’m royally annoyed because the husband’s first Swim Week rodeo is akin to taking a Bikram yoga class he didn’t sign up for. Or a strut through the swampy Everglades.
And then my internal monologue kicks and I realize, instead of droning on and on about Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Swim’s top trends (Neon colors! Tribal! Leopard and floral prints! Blah, blah, blah), I will write a piece on what NOT to wear to Miami’s
Version of an Arizona Sweat Lodge Swim Week. Here goes:
THE FIVE COMMANDMENTS OF WHAT NOT TO WEAR TO MIAMI SWIM WEEK:
Silk shirts: I have the pit and back sweat stains to prove it. My dry cleaning bill this week is going to be killers.
Jeans: Unless you plan on cutting them off with a pair of scissors at the end of the night, then be my guest.
High heels: Ladies, seeing as the brunt of the party is atop stretches of sand, wear wedges or flats. I saw a chick or two or three eat major ass. It was funny. Thank-you-very-much.
Blazers: I saw a few blokes in suits. And while they weren’t visibly sweaty, I felt a pang of pain every single time I spotted one. Sebastian gasped, “Oh my God, can you imagine how HOT that dude is?” He’s right.
Pin-straight hair: I’m guilty of this. I flat-ironed my Greek ‘fro on night one only to come home to, well, a Greek ‘fro thanks to a humidity index of 105.
So when dressing for Swim Week, think what would Ginger on Gilligan’s Island do? And mentally prepare yourself to get wet. And that not-so-fresh feeling.