Milano, the city of fashion. This is another of the many clichés about Italy, one that I never bother contradicting because, after all, it’s an indirect compliment to my sense of style and I am a vain fashionista. That is when I’m in the mood, because when I’m not I might go grocery shopping in my yoga pants or go to work wearing jeans and trainers for a whole week. Long story short, I have my share of guilt when it comes to fashion. Still, I have never scraped the bottom of the shoe box and I like to think that’s because I am from Milano.
I have never walked home barefoot after a night out. Roomy clutches are my religion, because you can shove in a pair of plastic flats, £5 from Primark, and basically save your own life. And yet, some local girls still prefer to stroll through puddles of puke.
I have never worn nude tights. Nude tights are particularly fashionable in London around this time of the year, when billboards scream “spring has sprung!”, Californian fashion bloggers style out flowery outfits, and yet the mercury column still signals 10 degrees. Nude tights might sound sensible indeed, were it not for that “chalk leg” effect, of which the aesthetic value is, in my honest and Milanese opinion, debatable.
I have never taken off my shoes at work. Some colleagues just slip their shoes off under their desk; others scurry freely around the office in their socks or bare feet. I do not care if shoes are uncomfortable, I do not care if keeping your shoes on all day long is unhealthy for your feet (excuses heard in real life!): without shoes your outfit falls apart, put them back on immediately!
That’s the point where some natives mutter “She’s from Milano”, while I try to hide my mismatching socks.