"It makes me want a hot dog real bad"
The Fourth of July, America's most nostalgic holiday
Few things transport me to the feeling of summer faster than today—the Fourth of July. America’s favorite holiday and also, somehow, its most chaotic. There are hot dogs. There are bottle rockets. There’s always someone much younger than you waving a lit sparkler two inches from your cornea like it’s a lightsaber.
What more could you want?
Back in the ’90s, my mom would storm the racks at Old Navy alongside every other suburban matriarch on a mission, scooping up fresh flag tees like they were limited-edition tour merch. Some years they had eagles. Other years? Golden retrievers in sunglasses. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: this family believes in liberty, loyalty, and machine-washable patriotism.
We’d meet up with all our cousins (who also, somehow, matched their siblings) at the local pool, where we’d spend the day playing sharks and minnows, nearly drowning on inflatable rafts far too advanced for anyone under ten, and drinking enough Capri Suns and SunnyD to clog a small artery.
No matter your age, it’s a holiday for dressing like the American flag in the most literal sense—like when Elle Woods defended Bruiser’s Bill on the steps of the Capitol in a star-spangled scarf. Same energy.
I’d call it embarrassing, in theory. But in practice? We were still a few notches below the families who showed up at the beach in all white (preferably ironed linen) for the staged “we summer” photoshoot that would later double as their Christmas card.
You know the one. Windblown toddler, dad in flip-flops holding a baby upside down, and a black lab rocking a flag bandana.
God bless America.
So, in the spirit of dressing like a walking, talking Fourth of July parade (but with considerably more taste), I’ve rounded up some unapologetically red, white, and blue looks that might have you rifling through your jewelry box for that long-lost puka shell necklace from the summer of ’97. Consider this important archival work.
She’s a catch (literally)
Starting with a vibe that makes me want to RSVP “yes” to my old neighborhood Splash Party and show up with blue raspberry popsicle stains on my mouth... I give you a bikini from Fruity Booty that might have local fishermen doing a double take.
Did we catch something — or are you just a really good catch?
Nothing screams Y2K summer like a mini metallic Dior bag—preferably stuffed with a Lip Smacker, a laminated pool pass, plus exactly four crumpled dollars. Throw on platform sandals, a claw clip, and the scent of Coppertone; suddenly, you’re loitering by the snack bar at golden hour. Nachos in hand, ice long gone, everything faintly smells like wet pool float and cherry Blow Pop.
The only thing left after a Splash Party is the long drive home in a car approximately the temperature of the sun—perfect for your chlorine-soaked thighs to stick to the vinyl seats while your mom blasts the AC and yells at you not to drip.
Your sunburn is in the shape of your swimsuit. You’re sugared up, slightly pruned from hours in the pool, and spiritually renewed from doing 47 headstands in the shallow end to impress a crush who never looked up from his Go-Gurt.
Founding Fathers would never (but we will)
And if this holiday is anything, it’s not the time to worry about wearing white. Break out the crisp sweaters, the white pants, the clothes you wear for exactly 15 minutes — just long enough to show them off, but not long enough to tempt fate.
Inevitably, the potato salad plate gives out, your napkin flies into a citronella candle, and someone’s toddler mistakes your pants for a wet wipe. Possibly all three.
There’s a reason the hottest white parties always seem to orbit the Fourth (for better or worse, looking at you, Diddy). Wearing white in July is a declaration of peak summer. It’s breezy. It’s bold. It reflects sunlight and confidence in equal measure. It says, yes, I’m wearing a headscarf and my most stain-prone outfit. And no, I will not be sitting down.
And if you’re not ready to go full Founding Fathers’ ghost in all white, try easing in with tonal pieces that still flirt with the flag. Think creams, silvers, soft blues—the kind of palette that lets people know you’re patriotic without falling into cliché.
Channel subtle nautical energy, like you once spent a summer pretending to care about knots because the guy had a boat and a really good jawline.
This Blue Crush bikini? It’ll catapult you directly into the sun-bleached arms of Kate Bosworth circa 2002—peak Roxy catalog energy, peak emotional spiral over a boy who says “surf’s up” unironically. Pair it with a shell anklet and the self-assurance of someone who once auditioned for a Hollister campaign in a mall parking lot.
Your hair should look like it’s been dried by wind, waves, and one extremely formative summer breakup.
Lady in Red (Fourth of July Edition)
But maybe you like a little attention. Maybe you wear red to weddings—not to steal the spotlight, but to make people wonder if you did.
Did she actually sleep with the groom? Who’s to say.
Red isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s for those who like to see and be seen.
The girl ordering a martini at the barbecue. The one in stilettos on the lawn. The one who brought a bottle of wine “just in case,” then opened it before the grill was even lit.
Red is for main characters only. Always has been. Think lifeguard at the community pool—clipboard in hand, whistle ready, total authority. Or those Limited Too swimsuits with “DIVA” spelled in rhinestones, glitter hibiscus and all.
Wearing red on the Fourth is less of a choice and more of a national duty. A high-visibility, burger-in-hand tribute to life, liberty, and the pursuit of hotness.
And don’t act surprised — I warned you the puka shells would make an appearance.
It’s only natural, right? Every hot girl growing up rocked them, usually paired with crimped hair, clear mascara, and that kind of confidence that made rollerblading feel like foreplay. To keep that energy on point (but still unmistakably that girl), throw in a red mini Prada bag — a perfectly loud, slightly bratty pop of color. Meet me on the golf course at dusk, we’ll drink too much, talk about nothing, and miss half the fireworks because someone brought Fireball and a reckless dream.
Now before you go and assemble your skewers for the grill or shop for this year’s pet hermit crab, remember the Founding Fathers did not risk it all so you could show up in a stretched-out ribbed tank. This is your moment. Channel your inner Limited Too mannequin, reapply that roll-on glitter, and pretend your AIM away message is something cryptic like “fireworks & bad decisions <3.”
Let the puka shells clack proudly.
You're doing it for America.
So many iconic moments in here!!! Ali Lauder!!!
devoured this and loved every second