Second Skin

“I can’t believe I spent so much money on so little fabric.”

The dress didn’t look much shorter than my skirts and other dresses but once I tried it on I could see that it was cut closer to the body than I was used to. I gave my mother a smile and a thank you. It was easy to see why she had been drawn to it when looking for a present for me. It was a blue and white striped dress with thin lines of a bright yellow edging the blue stripes. In that way it was very me. The amount of blue and white striped clothing that I own borders on the obscene. Tees. Sweaters. Dresses. Blazers. Skirts. Too many items for my mother to not have taken notice of my addiction.

But that close cut kept me from wearing it until over a year later when I packed my bags and moved west.

After I bought my first pair of skinny jeans in my early 20s, I never looked back. I've dabbled here and there with a flare or a straight leg but for the most part my pants live close to my skin. I own more than one pair that requires me to hop around my room when pulling them on. But my skirts and dresses didn’t follow suit. The hemlines got shorter, much shorter, but they rarely sat close. If they did, they stayed buried deep in my closet. Even my pencil skirts, made of cotton and silk crepe, sit away from the surface of my skin. What rests beneath is only hinted at through the occasional, well-placed slit.

I wore that striped dress constantly during my first Los Angeles summer but that fact did not mean that I'd taken to it in the same way that I had to that first pair of skinny jeans years earlier. I loved it but was never exactly comfortable in it. My wardrobe was still in transition that first year, California Samantha still gestating, as my media-influenced ideas about Los Angeles style began to be replaced by the reality on the ground. I was surprised by the general looseness of everyone's clothes, especially the clothes of the people sharing my small corner of this sprawling city. The new pieces that entered my closet often took their lead from my neighbors' example. There were boxy shirt dresses and two jumpsuits with blouson tops. Seven soft and silky Everlane tees now live in my dresser. During my second summer, that striped dress made it out of my closet only twice.

It is possible to do something because you love it while also indulging in it because you fear its opposite.

A little over a month ago, I walked into the Urban Outfitters in Downtown Los Angeles in search of a pair of black ballet flats that I had seen on their website. They were nowhere to be found. I wandered to the sale section in search of nothing in particular and picked up a striped, knit skirt. When I stepped into the dressing room, I noted two things. Firstly, the skirt was longer than any I'd bought in the past couple of years. Secondly, it clung to every bit of me. To my hips and my thighs and my ass. If I were to throw a collarless tunic or a swing sweater on with it, as I often did with my skinny pants, it would look all wrong. There was no hiding in it.

I wasn't sure what I was thinking but I bought it. It was only $10 after all.

It didn't take long for me to wear it but then it never takes long for me to wear anything anymore. When I finally found a pair of denim overalls last Friday, I went home and immediately changed into them. I've learned that anything that I don't want to put on the moment I enter my door with it is something that I should return.

But just because I knew that I wanted to wear it didn't mean that I wasn't wary of it. That striped dress still sat in my closet waiting for the real heat of my third Los Angeles summer to descend or for me to get over myself, whichever came first. I thought of the skirt as a one-off. I was happy living my loose, swingy, and sometimes boxy life without much examination. But less than two weeks later, in a different store in search of a different item that was nowhere to be seen, I again wandered into the sale section where I came across a second skirt.

Firstly, it was longer than the last one. Secondly, it clung to every bit of me. To my hips and my thighs and my ass. There was no hiding in it. I wasn't sure what I was thinking but I bought it. It was only $10 after all.

I wore it almost immediately to a friend's reading on the west side that weekend. As I sat on the bus there trying not to fidget in it, I realized that maybe there was more to these impulse purchases. I sometimes forget that whimsy and happenstance should always be last on the list when I'm searching for a reason why I've done something. The skirts weren't evidence of a sea change per se but of a broadening of what I considered the right types of clothes for me.

Free from the worries and the turmoil of those years at home, an increased level of confidence has been creeping up on me. I shouldn't be surprised that it chose to manifest itself in my shopping habits.

The Blazer

At the beginning of the summer a well-known women's fashion magazine asked their readers for essay submissions for their Personal Style issue. They were looking for 500-word explorations focused on "a treasured piece from your wardrobe." I'd been looking at my wardrobe in that way for years, searching for the gems that define it, that explain the root of my style, but I hadn't written something in that vein for quite awhile.

The issue is now on newsstands, so I know for certain that my submission was not chosen. But that doesn't really matter. I write best when there is an assignment involved, a task to steer my occasionally muddled thoughts. I can't shake the school girl. I doubt that I ever will. And this assignment gave me a chance to return to my roots in some ways. I'm not including a picture of me wearing the item because none exists. Maybe I'll get around to that someday when I stop hiding from people clutching cameras.

I thought about lengthening it but I like its crispness. 500 words on the nose. My middle school self is particularly proud of that fact.

I’m not sure how I made it through my east coast, prep school existence without amassing a closet full of blazers. After spending my earliest years in a Catholic school uniform, I happily greeted the relatively laid back dress code of the girls’ school that I began attending in the fifth grade. For good or for ill, I relished the chance to participate fully in the trends that would become signposts of a 1990s adolescence. Blazers were nowhere to be found among the plaid skirts and the platform shoes from Wild Pair and the flared jeans.

At the age of 26 and back at home after being chewed up and spat out by the economy and New York City, I turned to my mother’s closet for a temporary solution to a sudden problem. When it comes to personal style, she and I reside miles apart. After the ups and downs of my trend-obsessed adolescence, I settled into a restrained classicism. She had always been, and continues to be, a colorful risk taker. During my youngest years, she wrapped her hair in vibrant printed scarves and wore one long earring instead of two. She is comfortable with imbalance in a way that I never have been. I long saw her wardrobe as a place for play and fantasy but rarely for inspiration. However, my employment roller coaster had led me to an apparel retail job for the holiday season and a blazer or two would be necessary. I searched through her closet for the first time in years and was stunned to find hidden among the pieces that I’d come to associate with her persona and her presence a classic wool blazer in navy with notch lapels, gold buttons, and a maroon silk lining. The shoulder pads marked it as a relic of the 1980s, but she assured me that she could remove them.

It was the beginning of a beginning. The blazer was longer in the torso than many that I’d seen for women, which made it perfect for me, and for her, as above average height is a trait that we share. It opened me up to new ways in which my mother and I are connected, and it happily started my descent down a slippery slope. The blazers that I collected over the next five years would prove themselves to be more than simple tools to help me ease my way through a life in retail. They became a way to elevate a tee or offset the femininity of a sun dress. They became makeshift jackets and occasional umbrellas. As their number grew so did their breadth. My closet now houses linen and bird's eye tweed, seersucker and shawl collar tuxedo varieties. But I most often return to the classic option that I found hiding in my mother's closet all those years ago. Timeless is a word thrown around in fashion circles quite a bit but that term fits the blazer perfectly. And it, in turn, fits me.

Hello, Goodbye

When the cold finally swept in late last year, I gleefully pulled on my shearling-lined wedge booties and snapped a picture to post on Instagram.

I bought them last winter, but as the season was beginning to wind down at that point, I only wore them out once or twice. But here was my chance. I’ve lost count of the times that they’ve been worn since that picture was taken. With skinny denim. With skinny wool trousers. With skirts and dresses. On Saturday night, they joined me as I walked from Boston to Cambridge over the Massachusetts Avenue bridge. They know something of this city now.

Anyone who knows me even a little bit knows that fall and winter are my favorite seasons for dressing. From my obsession with wool outerwear to my love of tights, they are the seasons in which I shine. I am a New Englander through and through, and that fact becomes apparent almost immediately upon meeting me. Probably because you’ll often find me in some variation of this.

Or this.

Or this.

Or this.

When I first started to care about my clothes again, about how I felt in them and about what the world saw when I was in them, summer dressing was a struggle. Sometimes it still is. So now I’m faced with a challenge. In two months I’ll be moving to Los Angeles. Unexpected yet exciting. A change that is a long time in coming. Boston and I are on bad terms, and time apart is needed.

The state of my closet makes things easier logistically. Half of my clothes are completely inappropriate. Too heavy and too warm. Not inclined to let in breezes. They can live here in my mother’s house or be donated. But they have been my safety net. They can be thrown on most days without thinking. Cords. Shirt. Sweater. Blazer. Boots. Even in the summertime my instinct is to throw on a sweater. Or to throw a blazer over a whisper thin tee. And oftentimes I succumb.

Because I can’t help myself. Because it’s second nature. Maybe just as Boston and I need a break, my cold weather clothing and I need one as well. It’s time to learn not to lean on those staples anymore. I’ve made it so easy for myself that sometimes I’m not even trying, not really anyway. But every day until then, I’m going to be wearing my tweed blazer.

And my favorite coat.

Might as well make the most of it while I can.

Favorite of the Day: Tanya Taylor

Wednesday was New York Fashion Week's soft open. There are always a few shows and presentations here and there on that day, but most people save their excitement and anxiety for Thursday.

While picking through yesterday's collections, I came across some of those shown on Wednesday. Among them was Tanya Taylor.

The clothes had a matronly foundation tempered by a youthful edge. It was as if a young girl went searching through her great aunt's closet and remade her finds with the help of a pair of pinking shears and a dusty sewing machine.

The hemlines were higher. The silhouettes tighter. And occasionally a bit of skin peeked through.


Photos via

Party Down

If there’s one word that makes me want to shop, it’s the word party. It can be preceded by any descriptor. There can be a paper invitation or an email or a “C U @ 8” text message. It can be on a roof deck. It can involve a beach bonfire. I could be crammed into a studio apartment. None of that matters. I sift through my closet beforehand and rarely find anything to satisfy me. Even if there is no dress code. Even if no one would blink if I showed up in a pair of ratty, skinny jeans, a striped, dolman-sleeved sweatshirt and a pair of beat up Bensimons.

When I was little, parties meant cupcake dresses. Green velvet, big skirts, and white sashes with a matching bow sitting atop my head. In college, I moved in the opposite direction. Halter tops and tube tops. Stretchy, suffocating fabrics. Bootcut jeans. Parties meant tighter and brighter. Can you find something that makes you look like a sequin that took a dip in a tub of glitter? Perfect! The discovery of the nearest Forever 21 was a revelation. It took far too long for me to realize a number of things. Firstly, a Forever 21 tube top lasts about three washes before it begins to disintegrate. Secondly, I rarely looked good in any of those things. And thirdly, having a wardrobe meant only for partying was a waste of space, money and time.

But the urge to hunt for something new when such occasions arise hasn't subsided, even though most of the parties that I go to now are of the "Everyone Bring Some Wine and Hang Out in My Apartment with Me" variety. On Monday, I wove my way up and down Newbury Street in search of something to wear to a party that I'm attending on Friday.

And just what was I hoping to find? Not cupcake dresses or halter tops. I'm far removed from both of those phases of my life. Feminine detailing. Ease. Pieces that can weave their way into my everyday wardrobe.

By Jason Wu

By Rag & Bone

By Tory Burch

And, for those occasions that call for it, something that I can dance in.


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The Trench

I write a lot about favorite things. Those that spend little time in my closet. Those lost to the vagaries of overuse. But there are far too many pieces that I overlook every day.

Trenches are iconic. Everyone should have one. Or so I’ve learned from piles of fashion magazines and a number of pop culture icons ranging from Carmen Sandiego in her red, double-breasted version.

To Audrey Hepburn's Holly Golightly in her more classic take.

My trench has been sitting idly in my closet for…well I actually don’t remember when I got it. Four or six or five years ago. It spent my time in Brooklyn living in a little nook of my apartment with all of my other coats. Yet when it rained, I never reached for it.

The Trench, like almost every coat I’ve acquired since the end of college, is single breasted. Lightweight and of a more classic shade, it came with a blue and yellow striped belt that lives on a separate hanger in my closet. The belt was a bit preppy for my taste. Or, if I’m honest, more preppy than I was willing to admit that I was at the time of The Trench’s entrance into my life.

But on Sunday as I prepared to work an overnight shift, my mother suggested that I throw it on. It was warm yet misty. Perfect weather for The Trench to make its first appearance in who knows how long. I was wearing a skinny pair of olive sweatpants and a lightweight navy hoodie over a black tank. But finished with The Trench, a high ponytail and two-tone ballet flats, the outfit made it seem that I was headed off to do anything but work for the next nine hours. I walked down the street twirling my floral-printed umbrella. A tall, cute boy carrying a pizza smiled at me. I smiled back.

So often I don’t feel like the adult that I’m supposed to be. Any signs of stability or success are fleeting. But like the sparkles and shots of color that I put on to mask the feelings of restlessness and disappointment that sometimes overwhelm me when I think about all of those things happening and not happening in my life, wrapping myself in that coat gave me a momentarily lift.

If May continues on as it has, I think I’ll be wearing it more often.


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Wear & Tear

Today I settled into my spot at the café as I always do. Purse down on the windowsill next to the table. Coat on the back of the chair. The Laptop Bag on the opposite seat. Then I run off to grab my tea or coffee or sandwich before removing my computer from its sheath and getting to the work of finding work. But when I pulled off The Laptop Bag today, I noticed a red smudge.

I keep the strap of the bag long so that I can wear it across my body. This configuration leads the loop of fabric where the strap hooks onto the right side of the bag to bounce against my upper thigh. There it often meets the vivid red of my peacoat, and the fibers have begun to transfer from one to the other.

There are, of course, clothes and shoes and bags that I hope to keep in immaculate condition. That are perfectly cared for and for which the appearance of a small hole or stain or streak would lead to severe devastation on my part. But for most pieces, such wounds are to be worn as badges.

The peacoat in question is missing the button of its right epaulet. Forced off by repeated tugging on the purse that I carry on that shoulder, I've never felt the need to replace it or complain about its absence. The button's loss was my own fault. When there is no purse to hold it in place, the epaulet flaps mildly in the breeze. It shows how much I care for the coat. Shows that it rarely left me last winter.

Long jeans that are not rolled or cuffed begin to fray at the bottom. The leather of boots goes from smooth to rough, changed by rain and snow and occasional mud. Headbands stretch and appear misshapen in my hands but sit perfectly once placed on my head.

In the end, clothes are meant to be lived in, and each of their imperfections tells a story.

Countdown

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.

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Costume Changes

A few weeks ago I sat outside in the unseasonably warm air talking to a friend on the phone. As it so often does with us, the conversation meandered from topic to topic until it landed on the topic of a recently purchased pair of pants

Me: I bought a pair of grown up pants.

Friend: You are a grown up, but I get what you're saying.

The pants in question are slim, cropped and woolen. They've been worn on one interview since their purchase. Most days I consider them before remembering that I'll be spending most of the day in the library writing things of the cover letter and non-cover letter variety that most people will never read. At that moment, I grab one of the many, many pairs of jeans I own or, if I'm feeling feisty, a miniskirt to be complimented by tights and boots. When I'm feeling particularly lazy and listless, I pair my chambray shorts with black tights and call it a fucking day.

I've spent the past few years avoiding real pants. Where would I wear them? Jeans would get more use. Skirts and dresses would never remain hidden. Real pants would sit in my closet taking up space with dresses from various high school and college formals and that cardigan with the floral embroidery that I need to get rid of because even looking at it causes nauseating flashbacks to how much of a grandmother I must have looked like in it.

But I told myself I would stop saying maybe later to things because of some perception I have of what my life is now. That better things will come and then I will deserve them.

So I bought them.

But still, sometimes, they remind of all those things I don't have that I wish I did.

Curator

This morning, while listening to a Pandora station that flitted between The National, Noah and the Whale and Arcade Fire, I sat on the floor fighting sneezes and sorting through piles of clothes in search of my fall pieces. It was a calming way to spend a rainy morning.

I spend most of September fighting the urge to buy an entirely new wardrobe. Sweaters and coats and boots seem to call out to me as I wander through stores. As the years have passed, I’ve gotten better at ignoring these bank account draining impulses. But every fall some things need to be discarded while others need to be found.

I made a little list in my head. In front of me were the minis in corduroy and denim and wool. Tights in pink and mustard and metallic silver. The many pairs in black and gray. More argyle knee-highs than I remembered owning.  Skinny black cords. A faux-wrap black sweater and a simple white v-neck one. The gray, green and black sweater dresses.

There were obvious gaps, even if I’d only made it halfway through the hunt. The sweater search never materialized last winter as I instead settled on layering. I could do with another pair of cords to compliment the cadre of denim that I own.

Shorter boots would nicely offset my knee-high pairs. A pair of non-denim, non-cord pants, an item I can’t remember purchasing in at least the past three years due to an allergy to chinos and the reality of working at casual workplaces, creative workplaces, or no workplaces at all, were likely a necessity at this point.

Flat oxfords could prove a nice, cold weather alternative to my ballet flats.

But I eventually tired of thinking about what was necessary. It was rainy and cold. August, the worst month of the year, was moving at too slow of a pace. No one seemed to be in a hiring mood this time of year. I stretched out on the floor, stared at the ceiling and thought of this.

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The Heat

Any will to write has been lacking recently. All I can think, and feel, is the heat. I distract myself by calculating the perfect fan sitting distance and listening to 90s pop hits. Moving is difficult. Dressing even more so.

Everyone in Boston has fallen back on their warm weather staples. Denim shorts or skirts with tank tops for the women. Cargo or chino shorts with polos or tees for the men. Flip flops all around.

I open my closet, and my clothes conjure thoughts of suffocating before I reach the bottom of our stairs. The thick belts I pair with my dresses resemble heat traps. Cardigans and light sweaters mock me. I think that I should start investing in some basic tees. Then I remember that I already have enough tees. I simply choose not to wear them. On me they read as lazy as opposed to casual and effortless.

On Tuesday, I pulled on my denim capris. My brain, barely functioning in this humidity, decided that something that rests that close to the skin can’t hold heat. I chose not to question that dodgy piece of logic. My eyes drifted to the linen sweater casually lying in another corner of my room. Only days earlier, as what I believed to be the first hint of autumn entered the air, I had worn it out while getting a quick drink. I closed the closet door. Finally my eyes landed on a forgotten piece hanging in a different part of the house.

Bought last year as I wandered through Gap, it was a shirt worn almost too often after the rains fled last summer. I have shrunk and the shirt has not, and I, so concerned about things fitting properly, had stopped wearing it. But it was never meant to be a perfect fit. Paper thin and prone to stretching as the day wears on, it had always hung off of me a bit. I pulled it on.

It proved to be the perfect choice. Light and loose yet somehow slimming. Cool and airy.

I've begun to wonder if I should have invested in multiples.

Color Commentary

I love your shoes. I see you walking, and then all of a sudden it's like BAM!

Or so I was told by the rather perky salesperson in the Saks mens' shoe department as I made my way to the escalators in the back. The canvas sneakers in question are a shocking, eye-searing pink. I bought them on a whim a few months ago while browsing the sale section of Urban Outfitters, but the shoes represent more than just a fun talking point for people who run into me as I walk through Boston streets.

My closet, when opened, leads you into a world of grays and creams and navies. There are a few departures. The year when I bought what was for me an abundance of yellow. A stray orange and white striped shirt. Multiple pink dresses that I usually leave in the dark in favor of their black compatriots. The Dress. But during the past year, I've begun to change. Slowly and with much deliberation but change nonetheless. And it is that off the cuff statement from the Saks salesperson that I try to live by.

I like my colors to be accents. I find allover color to be overwhelming on me. Or, more truthfully, I am overwhelmed by allover color on me. Yet I understand that those brights look beautiful against the color of my skin. How many times in my life have I heard friends, acquaintances and strangers lament their inability to wear the colors that I could so easily pull off? Annoyance was my gut reaction to such statements. Mostly because it's not as if they would want my dark skin in any instance that didn't involve having access to a wider range of clothes.

But once I got past my discomfort with the comments of those around me, I began to realize that I should capitalize on this advantage. Not by ridding my closet of its grays and creams and navies but by learning how to combine the colors with what I already own and love. Now I seek nail polishes and tights in vibrant shades of pink. I buy friends to take up residence with The Cardigan. I bring color to my face not with makeup but with vibrant scarves carelessly wrapped around my neck. I spend most cold days in a bright red peacoat.

The light leaks in slowly as the teals and peaches and lavenders take root in what was once a dark place.

Legs For Days

In my past life, when I disliked clothes that drew attention to me, I rarely wore anything short. (Not that this isn't the case now. The drawing attention not the short.) Blessed with legs that were long and shapely even in my heavier days, I could make most anything look short. For that and many other reasons, it wasn't until after college that I bought my first real miniskirt. My first minidress didn't enter my closet until sometime in the middle of my tenure in New York. But even after buying them, they stayed hidden away. Not because I had forgotten them but because I feared them.

I know that sounds melodramatic. Why would I ever fear a piece of clothing? Much less something that took up so little space. But I did. For whatever silly, timid, little girl reason, I did. When they did depart my closet, I would spend most of the evening fidgeting. Pulling at the hem. Standing in corners. Avoiding glances.

When I stop and think about it, my issue with The Short can be traced to my past discomfort with The Sexy. Or at least the overtly so. In the past, sexy meant many things to me, and none of them were particularly good. Smart. Pretty. Funny. These were all positive adjectives in my world. Not necessarily words that I always associated with myself but words I understood.

Things changed quickly in the summer of 2008 when, spurred on by my internship, I decided that I needed to learn how to wear them. I had been slowly ridding my closet of things I never planned on wearing again. Things that were too small or too large or simply not me anymore. But as the skirts few outings into the greater world had less to do with them and more to do with my various neuroses, they did not find their way into the discard pile. I was set on making them a part of my life. That September I wore a blue and white patterned mini to a fashion show with sweet mary janes, a black tank and The Cardigan. In some ways, that was the beginning of the end.

That Halloween, while lazily dressed as a devil, I paired my black minidress with red tights. When February arrived, I ran through the East Village in the patterned skirt and mary janes paired with a white sweater, gray tights and a black, cotton motorcycle jacket. As that Fashion Week progressed, two minidresses joined the fray complemented by black leggings and my equestrian style boots.

Moving home and feeling particularly feisty when it came to dressing, the skirt collection increased threefold. A-line. Corduroy. Military Green. Plaid. Tights in every color from green to black to pink to silver were found on my legs. Ballet flats and equestrian boots and heeled oxfords and wedges sat on my feet. Before New Year's Eve, I pranced around the house in the black minidress I had purchased for that evening. I stopped pulling and tugging and playing around.

The answer, in the end, was to find a way to make them all mine somehow.

Be that preppy or girly or boyish or sexy.

Favorite of the Day: Richard Nicoll

Blues and grays are my favorite neutral tones. A peek into my closet will find a lot of both.

This season Richard Nicoll shares that love.


Photos via

Shivers

I was cold this morning when I woke up. Cold! I had stupidly left my windows wide open forgetting that the temperature was supposed to drop considerably today. So there I was shivering under my comforter and finding myself both happy and sad about the emergence of sweater season.

Though I have built up my spring and summer wardrobes considerably over the past few years, I have been negligent on the fall and winter side. Especially the winter side. For most of my life, I had a borderline obsession with sweaters. And because of that fact, I've recently been focusing on the lighter pieces that were missing from my wardrobe. As a result I'm back living in Boston, where winter is colder and longer than New York, with a neglected sweater collection.

While living in New York, I got into the habit of layering my pieces. Putting tights on under my dresses and skirts. Buying lighter, thinner sweaters. I made it through three winters there with only once putting my feet into my snow boots. That will not be the case this year. And along with having to dig up those boots from wherever they're hidden, I'm going to need actual sweaters again.

A few I can afford:

The Gap


J.Crew


Converse One Star


Ballerina


And one I definitely can't:

Helmut Lang





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Time Travel

Yesterday, while looking for something else, I came across an old pair of flats. That's the thing about living at home again. I'm always finding things. Like that copy of A Confederacy of Dunces that I never got around to reading and now takes it rightful place in my purse.


The flats have a rounded point that resembles the tip of an elf's shoes. The fabric reminds one of an old tapestry that one would find hiding in a castle. Or in the manor house from The Secret Garden.

I remember exactly when I bought them. I spent the spring semester of my junior year of college studying abroad in London. On the night of my first full day, I wandered around the Kensington area where our hotel was located (we were soon to leave for a quick family stay before moving into our dormitories). I made my way to Whiteleys but did not purchase anything there. On the way back, a small shop caught my eye, and I left with the flats. They were the first of many purchases I made especially after I discovered the wonder that is Topshop.

They were also the item that I wore the most out of things both purchased and packed. They visited museums and parks. They were stuffed in a suitcase for a quick trip with one of my flatmates to visit Prague. I ran into another girl wearing the same shoes while out at a club, and we spent 12 minutes drunkenly complimenting each other on our impeccable fashion sense.

All of these outings and encounters and memories of once precious items flooded back when I put them on yesterday. The early morning I spent eating a bacon sandwich after an epic evening out. The red purse from H&M that I carried everywhere and still holds my Oyster card over five years later. The blunt bangs I got before our trip to a rather windy Stonehenge.

I racked my brain for why I hadn't worn the flats in so long. The heels were a little uneven, but that could be easily fixed. A trip to the cobbler would be had. And then they could claim their rightful place in my shoe rotation, if only for the memories that come bubbling to the surface when they are worn.

Heat Wave

The heat has descended upon us, at least for the time being, and on Saturday I was finally able to throw on a dress without layers and tights and jackets and worries.

For that first stretch of warmth, I pulled out a dark blue cotton dress that I bought at The Gap two years ago. The plan for the day was to wander the Brooklyn Flea with a friend. (A place where I, surprisingly, always end up eating and never shopping.) I took a window seat in a nearby coffee shop and waited for my friend to arrive. My iced coffee wasn't long for this world and The Village Voice that had been left by the seat's previous occupant only held my attention intermittently. I spent most of my time trying not to look at the cute boy who took the seat next to mine and watching everyone enjoy the warm weather on the sidewalk in front of me.

Everyone goes a bit crazy during that first warm weekend. Shorts and skirts and tanks are pulled from the recesses of closets and dressers and thrown together in eye-searing combinations. This is why I chose a dress. Simple. Easy. I didn't give myself the chance to throw on every warm weather piece of clothing I own in a hot weather frenzy. No walking shorts with espadrilles with tank top with cropped cardigan with brightly-colored purse with three bangles and a headband. It was time to feel out the warmth. To decide what could be salvaged from last Spring and Summer. To really get down to the business of cleaning out my closet.

Well I would eventually get down to the business of cleaning. I first had to attend to the eye-searing colors in the snow cone I bought from the ice cream truck parked outside of the Flea.

Brush Strokes

With my internship days switched around this week, I found myself in my apartment today without much to do. I opened the door to my closet, which I've been putting off organizing for at least a year, and pulled out clothes to try on and assess. This did not turn out well. I spent most of the time prancing around in various dresses and skirts.

This foray into pretend cleaning led me to one conclusion. I'm done with winter. Yes, it's still January. And yes, I've only just broken in the awesome boots that I got for Christmas. But I'm ready for skirts and dresses sans tights. For the green, swing jacket and The Cardigan. Apparently I only like dressing for those in between seasons. Fall is all about blazers and skinny corduroys and the right amount of amount of crispness in the air. Spring is for floaty dresses and cropped jeans with ballet flats.

This all, of course, led to my sitting on my bed in a patterned skirt and a white tank scouring the internet for Spring merchandise like this dress.

Painterly patterns and I are totally going to run away together.


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Walk Ins

When boredom grabs me, one of the first places I head is the refrigerator. Not to eat anything. I just open it and peer in. Considering. Contemplating. And then, after a few minutes, I close it. My mother tells me that I've been doing this since I could walk. That and unknowingly standing in front of the television when others are trying to watch. After the fridge, I usually head over to the closet.

When I was six years old, the closet of choice was my mother's. Every inch was packed. Suits with shoulder pads. Evening dresses with intricate beading and sequins. And near the back, a group of slinky party dresses left over from her 20s. A Pink, A Black and A Cream. Those pieces were my favorite. I could see people on the street towering over me in their suits all of the time. I often caught glimpses of glamorous women wearing those evening dresses with intricate beading and sequins on the television. But I never saw anyone in anything like The Pink, The Black and The Cream. Those dresses were worn by a mother I had never known. And the idea of that confused and intrigued my little girl mind.

When I'm in a vintage store now, it's like I'm in the closet again. I am six and everything is more beautiful than anything in my own. And then I look at the price tags...

But earlier this week while at my internship, I got introduced to Nasty Gal Vintage, a site with reasonably priced vintage pieces. The items that drew my eye fell into one of two categories: Available and Unavailable.

This Mod Dress has two things that I don't go for normally: color and pattern. But I love it. And its bow. And the fact that it costs less than a good number of my jeans.


And here we are again with the color and the pattern. But I like anything that reminds me of school uniforms of yore. The Sioux Buckle Skirt does that job quite nicely.


The first item that I clicked on was the Sunshine Lace Dress. Even though it was clearly marked sold. I think the skirt caught in mid-twirl made me do it. That and the fact that this is basically my idea of the perfect summer dress.


I like sparkles, as should be obvious from this blog's title. But I tend not to wear them. (We'll address that at a later date.) So maybe it's the fact that the Saturday Sequin Jacket features black sequins against a black background that makes me covet it. Or it could be the fact that it's unavailable.


I have a habit of wanting those things least likely to be mine.


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Out in the Cold

For most of the weekend, the weather was disgusting. Too wet to go without layers but too steamy to feel comfortable in them. I spent far too much time on Saturday and Sunday deciding which piece of outerwear would be appropriate. In the nook that branches off of the small hallway near the door of my apartment, there are multiple coats and jackets. At the moment, there might be six. A few options remain on my futon after being discarded this morning as I tried to dress for both the coolish morning and the warmer afternoon. I finally decided on my blue Luella for Target blazer and a thin multi-colored scarf to join the white tank and lightly deconstructed Long and Leans I already had on. Thankfully that ensemble proved to be the correct choice.

Picking the right coat is an art. Well for me it is. I have an aversion to looking lumpy, which can often happen when coats or jackets are combined with top-heaviness. And breasts. And sweaters. All things that either I can't get rid of (breasts are occasionally handy in filling out tops) or can't avoid (winter is cold). When I was younger and much more of a lemming, I was a fan of all things double-breasted. One, because I had to have that camel peacoat from J.Crew when I was a freshman in college. And two, because I had yet to understand how to dress my body to its full potential. Now not a single blazer or jacket or coat has more than one row of buttons, though I'm occasionally tempted. Like when I see things like this:


But like with many, but not all, things that I know are bad for me, I've trained myself to stay away. Nothing is worse than a smooshed chest. Nothing. Okay, maybe hot pink short shorts worn with purple tights are worse, but this is a close second.

Beyond purging myself of the double rows and the puffy jackets, I've tried to increase the range of my outerwear. To move away from the more juvenile items that defined my high school and college self. There's the trench that falls some inches below my knee. The slightly heavier coat with the rose-patterned lining. The green swing jacket for early spring and fall and days when I eat a lot of lunch. The long and thick black for the coldest days. The military-inspired bluish-green from The Gap. And the formal Victor & Rolf for H&M that my mother gave me as a gift:


It's taken me at least the past five years to get my collection to the point where I feel like I have something for every occasion and every temperature. In fact, it's the one area of my wardrobe where I am completely satisfied. I wear my flats into the ground. My headbands fall apart. But I always have something to protect me from the cold.


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