I love my boyfriend… I think he is more than perfect (except maybe when he uses my unexplainable fear of geese to torture me). But would I ever steal from his wardrobe? Maybe the occasional tee to sleep in, if he hasn’t been sweating up a snowstorm. (Don’t ask me what I mean by that, its alliteration therefore its fabulous journalism, ok? Ok! Good.)
But it seems the latest thing in fashion world is a duo wardrobe with your bf.
I know this is where I’m supposed to say “to cure my Monday morning blues I want to rope my other half into coupled clothes, Kimye styles” but what would really knock the start-of-the-working-week-chip off my shoulder would be if we could dress matchy-match and laugh our arses off before promptly getting into our normal (not the same in any way shape or form) looks and head out for brunch.
It would be a good laugh, but nobody should see that right? It’s like some perverted fashion-meets-sexual fantasy that Freud would have a field day on. And, no, Sigmund, I don’t really want to make love to myself. I’m a little egotistical (aren’t we all in the blogosphere), but that is one step to far.
Plus I don’t suit orange plaid, and the boy absolutely rocks it. (I know what you’re thinking, can anyone ever actually look good in that? The answer is yes. Yes they can. But it sure as hell isn’t me).