Monday, November 29, 2010


Maybe it's the chill that's finally settled in or some shift in my mood as the days have gotten shorter, but as New Year's Eve (my favorite holiday, what with the bubbly drinks and the sparkles and the kisses at midnight) approaches, I've become less inclined to wear a party dress.

I will still wear one, of course, as my closet is overloaded with them. It will be my favorite of the moment. The one that's been seen more than once by my Boston friends but will be new to those in New York whom I haven't seen in almost six months. It's a strapless black minidress. Tulip skirt. Simple. It will be paired with sparkly black tights, layered over a silk sequined tank, and finished with heeled mary janes. The entire look says sexy and sweet and festive. It's rather good at drawing those compliments that make me both smile and cringe. But for some reason, all of that sweetness and all of that prettiness have been making me uneasy recently. I tug and pull at my A-line minis not because of their length but because of some discomfort that I can't describe.

I wouldn't say that I've become bored with all of those pretty girl dresses. Just that I've become tired of the acting that those clothes sometimes involve. The acting that I can't seem to help myself from undertaking while in them.

But I think that the impulse to put on the mask would fade away in slim-fitting pants like these from Stella McCartney

Offset with a pair of sparkly pumps from Miu Miu

And a Vanessa Bruno Athé sweater.

A black cuff from Aurelie Bidermann would sit on my right arm

While a Lanvin cocktail ring would adorn the finger that is supposed to remain bare.

Photos via, via

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