I was doing my usual 4pm workday chi-aligning routine—popping barely unwrapped Dove chocolates and some dry-eyed unblinking browsing of cheap fast fashion websites while 5,000 different work-related gchats glimmered in the background—and I came across the most delightful curio:
A so-called “Foam Party Skirt” for $35 at Necessary Clothing that looks a lot like those gathered-waist crepe minis I’ve been seeing everywhere that I can’t stop thinking about (I don’t know what attracts me to the way a paper-bag waist looks on a lady but I fuckin’ love it, like on a borderline sexual level. An a-line skirt that comes in tight across the tiniest part of the waist and then flares back out under the ribcage a little oh my lord someone get me my smelling salts).
I also can’t stop thinking about how it’s called specifically a “Foam Party Skirt.” It says it’s made of cotton in the garment description (not that I’d be at all surprised/confused if it said it was made of 100% foam, because in this beautiful universe that is a complete, tantalizing possibility) so I guess here, “foam” is used as like, an illustrative adjective? The way there is a “Danger Zone” Romper and a “Space Cadet Bandage” Skirt (lol x2). In which case there’s some copywriter out there who, whilst, no doubt, sucking on a dick-shaped popsicle made of MD 20/20 in their lawn chair-cum-home office somewhere in Paramus, New Jersey, saw this skirt and said, “Why, this skirt shall be called “Foam Party!” Why not, why not? There must have been a Google search for “Closed-Cell Resin Celebration Jumper” and “Polybicarbonate Lazy Day Private-Part Covering Unit,” and, upon finding both of these clothing names already licensed to Express, the writer must have just simply taken a shot in the dark and gone with “Foam Party Skirt.” Why not? Why not.
I don’t know what a Foam Party is, even, but I sure hope I’m invited to one before I turn 30. And I hope the Foam Party someday takes Congress. And I hope someone throws me a surprise Foam Party for my birthday this coming year, which means probably that my entire birthday goes largely forgotten except that someone halfheartedly tosses a balled-up one of these skirts onto my doorstep with a note that reads simply, “Here.”
Is that photo shoot of Kate Upton boobing around in a zero-gravity simulator plane a Foam Party? Probably most definitely, yes.
I love this skirt. I want to wear it with a metallic spray-painted baseball helmet, a utility vest and a dream. It’s my Foam Party and I’ll whatever if I whatever.
Whoever named this skirt, thank you, thank you for your beautiful mind. Yes, I’m RSVPing. I’m here. I’m outside the door. I’ve got $35 and a zillion charmeuse blouses to shove into the waistband of this thing. Is this where I go for the Foam Party?