When a woman could describe her attire as "fancy," there is usually also a double meaning that there is at least a mild form of torture being performed on her body; inadequate layers to brave the freezing winters because her coat is too thin, or has short sleeves; blistering, pinched feet, swollen joints in her toes, unsightly morphing from the original shape of a foot; the digging of a wire, the pulling of some tape, that headache that comes from hair pins stabbing her scalp, or hair pieces pinching her temples; her manner of walking is greatly challenged by the elements: long skirts, high shoes, red wine flowing. She's been warned, she's been questioned, she marvels at the obstacles she makes for herself. She can hear her mother's voice in her head, telling her it's not worth it (and she's seen her mother's feet!). But she gets caught up, yet again, in the feel of the fabric, in the defined waistline, in the way her legs look unending, the elegance and the beading and the way it all feels: fancy.
[Photograph from Style Caster].