I have heard with firsthand authority from three very reliable sources on three staggered occasions - once in the late '80s, once in the mid-'90s and once last Summer - that Cindy Crawford, in person, is the most naturally beautiful celebrity on the block.
The first witness, a then-17 year old high school friend of my brother's, cited (not surprisingly) Cindy's slim, athletic physique as what first drew his attention and then, after closer inspection, dropped his jaw; the second witness, a man of more "seasoned" age and coincidentally the one responsible for my thankfully now-over 15 month binge on Rachael Yamagata music, Anne Sexton poetry and bags upon bags of Tropical Skittles, couldn't get over her skin, bone structure and "perfect posture"; the third, a girlfriend of like age and like taste in girl-crushes, was stopped-short by how effortlessly her clothes fit, both in drape and style ("I never really knew what 'Cindy Crawford style' looked like until I saw her, and then it just hit me over the head.").
Point is, from what I hear and from what I can tell in most every picture I've ever seen of her, Cindy is that rare-looking creature that no matter what she's wearing (or not wearing) elicits the "It looks good on her, but on anyone else..." reaction.
You know what I mean -- the boucle suit, the suspender jeans, the capri pants, those horrendous oxford bootie-heels that are supposed to be so in-vogue for Fall. None of these could do 99.9% of women justice but on someone like Cindy (or my delicious friend O, a picture of whom I wish I could show you) you might be able to eke out a "Yeeeeah, I guess I can see that working" rationalization.
Where is all this going?
Well, I finally saw something today as I returned from lunch at Panache (just off ConnAve by the ABC News building) that not even as-close-to-perfect-as-perfect-comes Cindy could have pulled off.
And it looked a little somethin' like this:
But think black pointy-toed, ankle-strap heels instead of boots and a boxy navy pinstripe blazer atop a denim button-up instead of an olive t-shirt.
As the ladies on GFY often say when there really isn't anything left to say...there are no words.