As this lady can tell you, D.C. is full of atrociously funky fashion. Cheap plastic flip-flops. Saggy jeans and exposed underpants on otherwise handsomely turned out young men. Sweatpants with words across the rump (just once, I'd like to see one that reads, "LOOK AT MY BUTT," for some serious honesty points). Frumpy boxy pantsuits. Chunky, clunky hoof-like shoes. Tourists in Female Body Inspector t-shirts and trucker caps. Popped collars. Man-pris.
Many of these forms of nasty attire can be easily explained: Bad aesthetic sense. Ignorance of comfortable, but less absurd, footwear options. Lack of time to shop. Inbreeding.
But one thing I will never, ever understand is the popularity of Vera Bradley purses. (Guys, if you're still here: see above for examples). They aren't cute. They aren't sexy. They look like diaper bags for grannies. Grandma could stash her Depends in the front pocket and use the bag itself as a changing pad.
They're matronly, ugly, and, worst of all, quilted. No quilted item, with the exception of high-grade toilet tissue, should ever touch an adult woman's body. Yet every morning, I'll see an otherwise stylish young woman with a paisley pastel squishy Vera Bradley grandma bag tucked under her arm.
So, Washington, I'll make you a deal: if you get rid of those ugly bags, I will never again complain about some woman shuffling and thwacking along in plastic flip-flops, blocking traffic as she oh-so-delicately inches her way up the escalator.