What to Wear in South Beach
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by Jayme Agee / July 21, 2004 |
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What to Wear in South Beach? |
I stare at the empty black suitcase. Prospective
candidates—shoes, handbags, accessories—are all competing in my mind for
this trip to Miami. My adventurous style had been ever-so-slightly
shaken recently while wearing a vintage lingerie top when someone asked,
"Did you forget to put on your dress?" But, I know Miami will be a bit
more accepting of peek-a-boo lace than my suburban Orlando
polo-with-pearls scene. I decide on a balance of basic tanks and skirts
with a few flashy accessories, handbags big enough for my cell and
cigarettes, dresses, bikinis and stilettos. Taking inspiration from the
Prada spring collection I recently saw in some glam-rag, I
impulse-purchase a fresh tube of bright magenta lipstick and hit the
scene in Miami.
Night 1: SoHo Lounge
The Electroclash party. I choose a red strapless dress and white heels
ensemble before my tan lines get too out of control with a week at the
beach. I joke with my gay partner-in-crime, Adam, "Ooh, I feel so
hard-core" leaving the edgy hip of South Beach for the grit of downtown
Miami. I note the DJ's appreciation for Prince's Erotic City, but
judging by the number of men I don't meet, I assume my red fashion
statement isn't quite hard-core enough. Bummer.
Night 2: Shore Club and Lounge 16
Short sixties-esque white satin dress with big green earrings. Adam and
I are joined by his girlfriend-before-he-was-gay, Joleen, who has four
piercings on her face and wears black leg warmers despite the heat.
Again, I find myself feeling fashionably mild in a sea of chic.
Night 3:
Opium
Garden
 I'm
hit with a maddening desire to forsake all the rules fashion I once
obeyed and go with a green skirt topped with a brown and orange tank
that exposes my leopard-print bra and serious cleavage. Accessorized
with a gold antique brass belt (one that had seemed too impractical when
packing, but now made so much sense) and gold hoops. Adam and I are on
the dance floor until 5 a.m.—we have a great time, I feel alive and for
once, not at all under-dressed.
Night 4: The Sagamore and the Delano
Black slip dress over black capris. I love the way high heels give me an
extra few inches of eye contact with bartenders, but, after three nights
of extravagant dancing my feet are ready for the intensive care unit, so
I settle for flat leather sandals. Adam has been replaced by my friend
Anna for the rest of the trip, and as much as I love him, this turns out
to be a great strategic move for two reasons: 1.) Anna is a jewelry
designer and has supplied me with a fabulous pair of Swarovski crystal
earrings with matching bracelet, and... 2.) She's so hot that my chances
of meeting a South Beach hunk are twelve times better running with her
than with a gay man. It's just too confusing with all the metros lolling
about. We're out all night and have a wonderfully scandalous time
(what's not to like about those little cabanas at the Delano?).
Night 5:
Shore Club and Privé
 Purple
nightie edged with hot pink lace over my leopard bra. Black and white
patterned skirt. Brass belt with newly acquired black and gold pumps.
Crystal earrings and bracelet. It sounds horrible I know, but it works
for my last night in South Beach. Before leaving the hotel room I strike
a tragically hip pose for Anna and we laugh in amazement at the amount
of fashion fearlessness I've acquired in a mere five nights. Out into
the night we go. The eyelashes bat, the business cards fly, and the
martinis go down like Kool-Aid.
Day 6: Wretchedly Hungover and Dreading the
Drive to Orlando.
Water...must have water. My throbbing headache is apparently affecting
my ability to parallel park a car and I become the asshole who leaves it
hanging-out too far from the curb while I run in to the quickie mart for
some hydration. "That's how you park a car? You make women look bad," a
woman bellows from a nearby cafe Now, I might have bags under my eyes,
but at least I'm wearing Gucci sunglasses and lip-gloss, so I retort, "I
make women look bad? Pah-leez..."
Praying the horrid she-beast doesn't follow me, I
slam the door and make my way toward 95-North. Apparently, my attitude
has increased along with my desire to walk the streets wearing underwear
and high heels. All in the name of fashion, of course...
Epilogue
Miami is a tropical playground for people who live for the moment—a
moment that often occurs at 3 a.m. in some ritzy club overlooking the
ocean. And while speed boats and botox have a way of making the
beautiful people appear ever-more alluring—even if there is sometimes
little virtue behind the facade—visitors who simply want to take a walk
on the wild side of fashion will soon find their inhibitions floating
away with the ocean breeze.
I think I'll move to Miami...
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