They are the flirt of prints, just as pink is the coquette of colors.
They have bounce and boom and beauty--you can't resist them--not the smattering of little dots across your dress nor the playful pattern on your scarves and blouses. You prefer the haphazard prints as if a painter has taken her wet brush and flung dots of paint across your clothes--no clear rhyme or reason to the pattern, just a series of dancing dots.
The ones that make you sigh are lined up in neat little rows as if to take the bounce out of the dots, the flirt out of these bouncy discs. Surely designers would understand that polka dots are not for the understated; the demure organized lines of one circle after another are begging to be shaken up. They must dance on your dress, move with the folds and the sway of your skirt.
Polka dots are a walking invitation--for mischief, for kisses, for fun. You don't wear them unless you are ready to be as playful as they are. They are your homage to the grace and strength of the Flamenco dancer, more than the polka music they were named after--emblems of pure movements spread across your body.
There is simply no such thing as too many polka dots, only not enough polka dot wearers.
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