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May 11, 2006

Well Played, For A Millisecond: Fergie

I'm not happy about what I'm about to do.

This whole thing reminds me of the deal with me and wedges. When wedges came back in, I hated them. They seemed so '70s to me, and not in a way I wanted to revisit. For some reason they struck such a visceral chord of distaste within me. I liked my heels separate from my shoes, and I really didn't like them made from something that's better served plugging a wine bottle until I'm ready to open it. "I am NOT buying a wedge, I don't care HOW hard Lucky and Steve Madden try to push me," I proclaimed on more than one occasion. "And don't even get me STARTED on those damn espadrilles that are coming in again."

Well, of course, then I started accidentally admiring wedges on people, and making tiny exceptions to my firm anti-wedge stance. And then suddenly I owned something sort of wedgey, and poof, fast-forward to April, when I bought some espadrille-wedgey things that tie around the ankle for my honeymoon and I had to check with my friend Carrie that I wasn't crazy and that they didn't look all that vile, and she confirmed they really were cute on, and suddenly there I was with a fusion of two hated things burning a hole in my suitcase. I felt dirty. And I wore them constantly when I was away.

I thought of this when the following photo flashed across my computer screen this morning.

Will you look at that? Fergie looks... classy. And pretty. The dress fits her in the most flattering places, she accessorized it really tastefully, her hair looks washed and brushed, there are no horrid little braids or formal shorts or C-3PO boots in sight, she appears momentarily sober and able to stand upright under her own power... in the immortal words of Wentworth Miler on Ellen, "Brava, brava."

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

I grappled with this all morning. Was this the first step down a treacherous, slippery Fergie slope? Would I wake up in a month unfugging her all over the place and saying to myself, "You know, she does rock a 24-inch zipper on her shorts"? Would Jessica try to talk some sense into me, leading to me locking myself in my bedroom with copies of Us Weekly out of which I would lovingly cut photos of Fergie, knowing it was just her and me against the world -- a cold, cruel world that didn't understand legwarmers and pants-wettings? Would she have to tie me to a tree and stage an intervention, a carefrontation, in which all my friends baited me until I broke and then patched me back together again?

Then I realized that I've held strong against the Black-Eyed Peas for their entire gnawing existence. I've been tough on leggings. I won't stand for dresses over pants. And my crusade against overlong pants that eat a girl's feet has marched on with vigor. So there's no reason to think Fergie will break me -- Fergie, the bane (and, therefore, the life-giving manna) of much of GFY's existence. There's no reason to think she'll weaken my resolve. And there's no reason to think that when I go see Poseidon, I will suddenly find myself weeping inconsolably when she is (please please please please) crushed by a falling piano.

And thusly, I slapped some sense into myself, because so few bid a lasting adieu to The Fug and certainly Fergie won't be that kind of pioneer. It felt right to be strong and give credit where credit is due. So congratulations, Josh Duhamel, you kept her clean and pretty for the duration of the pre-premiere red carpet. I salute you. If you can keep up this good work, we can finally go out for that romantic dinner you've always been after. Okay? Great.

Posted by Heather at 05:37 PM in Fergie (the Pea, not the duchess), Well Played | Permalink

 

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