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I don’t understand the lure of fashion. Not at all. To me, looking “perfect” is akin to looking plastic, and my highest aspiration in life is to be as well-worn as the velveteen rabbit. I want to engage in each and every experience. I kind of think the surest way to make that happen is to wear sneakers (as opposed to stilettos).

When I saw Kim Kardashian on “Live with Kelly and Michael” back in May talking about how she found it so romantic when Kanye redid her entire wardrobe, all I could think was I don’t want a man to dress me. I want him to undress me. But, hey, then again, I’m not a sinner who just gave birth to a Saint and, while I am directionally challenged, I’d never name my child North. Especially not North West.

But I digress.

Fashion. Yeah. I don’t understand it. All those size negative runway models strutting their stuff while other, less emaciated women feel inferior for not measuring up (or withering down) to those impossible standards of skeleton-like skinniness. What I do like about fashion, however, has absolutely nothing to do with the clothes and everything to do with the new reclamation of female empowerment as embodied by Marylyn Monroe and all the fabulously curvy women who have followed in her high-heeled footsteps.

I’m silently (or not so silently, considering the fact that I’m blogging about it) rooting for nations such as France who have actually made it criminal to promote anorexic images of women ( and organizations, such as Miss Venus, LLC, which are changing the face of female beauty.

So, while I could care less what Robyn Lawley or Ashley Graham are actually wearing, I applaud them as they strut their stuff down the proverbial runway. And, in honor of their achievements, here’s a little throwback to the good old days.

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