First Days

I haven't stepped foot in a classroom for the purpose of formal learning and lecture in almost fifteen years, and yet when August entered its final, hazy days a month ago, I settled into a familiar state. It's a state that I've returned to during each late summer that has passed since my college graduation. It's a state filled with thoughts of and longing for notebooks and a rainbow array of pens and carefully curated, first day outfits meant to impress.

I had an odd loathing for summer as a child. It wasn't only the sticky heat that caused me distress. I also desperately missed school. You could find me at high noon on a Saturday in mid-July laying flat on my back in bed with my eyes closed as hard as I could manage and wishing for the next six weeks to slide away and disappear. Sometimes I would mix it up and turn over onto my belly, forehead against forearm, hoping for the impossible. I outgrew this behavior around the age of 12 but never became exactly comfortable with summer and the freedom that came with it. It's no surprise that I'm still left flat-footed when offered unstructured time that could be used, if I were the type of person who enjoyed such a thing, for hours of leisure.

There are other types of freedom that I've never had trouble exploring to the fullest. When I was set loose from the confines of my Catholic school uniform, free finally (on the days I chose to be) from starched white shirts and pleated plaid skirts, I spent a lot of that summertime freedom focusing on all of the things I would wear once school was back in session.

In my mind, it feels like I must have written numerous pieces on my mother's negative feelings about and disinterest in my former dreams of a career in fashion. But as I look back, there's only the one published on the eve of my 30th birthday. I speak of her distaste sometimes, mostly in passing and often laced with a joke. And I think about it a lot as it is so intertwined with the disappointment I know she feels about the path my life has taken. It's this final piece that likely explains my confusion. I've written whole tomes in my head about the ways in which I've let her down.

Her attitude about this facet of my personality has always left me wondering what exactly she expected of the child who spent most of the summer of 1994 carefully planning a purple and white ensemble for her first day of sixth grade. After all this was also the child who was in love with lace-trimmed socks worn with Mary Janes and became briefly obsessed with the printed fans one could find at little shops throughout Boston's Chinatown. The one who insisted that the day printed on her Day of the Week underwear always aligned with the actual day of the week and carefully slotted the shiniest pennies she could find into her brown loafers.

The one who wore a seersucker suit to her birthday dinner and asked to be made a gold lamé dress for a New Year's Eve trip to the Boston Pops.

White. Purple. White. Purple. That was the pattern I settled on in the original conception of this Very Important outfit. I was foiled in the execution by the fact that there were no purple Keds to be found in the Greater Boston area, so I pivoted to a white pair worn with purple socks that I scrunched as hard as they could be scrunched. 11-year-old Samantha was as persnickety then as 36-year-old Samantha is now and so was greatly disappointed by this deviation from the plan, but I walked into my school's red doors as close to perfect as I could manage, a stark white tee worn with a pleated purple skirt from Limited Too. Around my neck was a pendant necklace from the same store, a thick black cord with a flower made of clay in shades of purple, yellow, and orange hanging from it.

The previous year I sat in a purple dress with little pink flowers scattered on it and pink tights on my legs surrounded by my classmates as the annual school-wide picture was taken. It takes work to get 400 girls from the ages of 10 to 17 and all of their teachers and various administrators settled in for a group picture, especially on that first day with the last of the summer cobwebs yet to clear away. The youngest girls were always seated cross-legged on the ground in front filled with nervous anxiety about this new beginning while the oldest stood on the highest riser thinking about the coming end of this chapter.

It was no coincidence that I wore purple on those two first days at this new school. It was my favorite color for much of my childhood, a perfect mix of hot and cold. My obsession with and love for it might explain why my mother is confused by the navy and gray adult that I've become. I lived within a whirlwind of color and print back then before moving to invisibility through trend obsession to preppiness and finally to this neutral chic that causes her to screw up her face.

And yet in that 11-year-old and all of her colors and all of her prints and that last gasp of a fascination with hats lived all of the pieces that explain how the 36-year-old dresses now. The planning. The precision. The need to impress others but mostly to impress myself. The delight at having a special occasion that calls for, at least in my mind, an entirely new look. I have found all sorts of ways in my adulthood to replace the thrill of dressing for those first days of school. My birthday party and the birthday parties of others. Weddings and baby showers. The first truly brisk day of fall and the first truly hot day of summer. I mark events big and small and life-changing with new outfits. Not all of such events or even a quarter of them but enough to fill myself with that childlike giddiness once more.

Then I stand in front of my closet as I prepare to put on the chosen outfit for the first time and think "today is your day."

Jumping In

Most of the years that I spent living at home in Boston bleed together. Did a certain event take place in 2010? Or 2012? Or 2013? Was I in a skinny phase brought on by distress or a larger one brought on by the depths of boredom? But inside that muddled timeline, there are those moments that stand out. In the spring of 2013, my mother came home with a clothing purchase. This in and of itself would not have been worth noting normally. At times she feigns ignorance about where my love of fashion comes from but I've never forgotten. It has always been her, the root and the source. What was noteworthy this time was the item purchased.

"Is that a jumpsuit?" Disgust laced my voice.

She hung it in a hall closet before turning to me.
"Yes," she replied.

"Are you actually going to wear it?"

"Of course. I used to wear them in the 70s."

I didn't question the latter but I had my doubts about the former. Although my love of clothes and shopping originates with her, the ways in which we pursue our conquests diverged long ago. My mother doesn’t try things on in stores. Instead she brings them home for the necessary testing before returning them if they aren’t quite right. There was a chance that in a few days the jumpsuit would return from whence it came. Or, less likely but still possible, that it would be consumed into the back of the closet, never to be heard from again. 

Sometimes I take to a class of clothing immediately. The moment skinny jeans became The Thing, I knew that I had to have a pair. With others, it takes time for me to come around. For years suits on women made me recoil. The options were limited. The manners in which I saw them worn were either uninteresting or unflattering. Now I cheer for them, the sharp and woolen as well as the luxe and velvet. I write long posts full of my favorites. I do celebratory dances in my bedroom when a woman walks the red carpet in one.

And yet, I haven’t bitten the suiting bullet myself. The last suit I bought was a gray, pinstriped Michael by Michael Kors number from the old Filene’s Basement that served me well during that first blush of post-collegiate life. It was an interview workhorse. A well-fitting workhorse, not like the shapeless rectangles that made me turn my nose up at suits for so long, but a workhorse all the same. On its last outing, I stood looking out at Boston Harbor from the well-appointed waiting room of an upscale insurance company that a staffing agency had sent me off to see and considered the possibility of a suit-wearing life. That was three moves and more than a decade ago.

My initial disgust at the jumpsuit’s rise was mostly logistical. I had worn many impractical clothes in my nearly 30 years but I hadn't had to strip to use the bathroom since the bodysuits and overalls of my 90s childhood. And my body had changed a lot since the age of 10. Puberty had left me busty but still somewhat slight of hip. Finding a single, pants-dominant piece that would fit both halves of me seemed impossible.

My mother kept the jumpsuit and even wore it a few times before I moved across the country the following spring. With the move, I suddenly had time that was my own and some disposable income. It was then that I began my quest for a jumpsuit.

Well I didn't know it was a quest when I started but I think that's usually the way of such things.

While my mother tries on nothing when in a store, I try on everything. It's not only about fit. It's a form of playing dress up. I don't linger too long, always take care not to damage the clothing in any way, and, because I cannot be helped, often leave with something even if that wasn't my intention. I like to know if I'm being too quick to judge a new trend, and the only way to do that is to put it on my body. To slowly turn in front of a mirror and examine it from all angles. To be able to categorize it as simply not for me, maybe only for me, or definitely not for anyone.

My time working in apparel retail only reinforced this habit. At the beginning of each new season, everyone would have to do a fit session to better acquaint themselves with the product and provide feedback to corporate. And so while on the clock I would take all of the major pieces of the new collection into a fitting room and test them out. Even now that the retail chapter of my life has ended, I continue to wander into stores for fit sessions. I live tweet my mall journeys and post pictures, always tilted slightly one way or the other, of suits and skirts and dresses and jeans.

I spent most of 2014 being "kind of blown away by" or "maybe [sold] on" the occasional jumpsuit seen on a celebrity at a red carpet event. I was warming to them outwardly but inwardly I struggled. I rarely took pictures of myself during jumpsuit try-ons. Something always felt off. The leg was too wide. It was too tight across the thighs. The crotch did unpleasant things. The top made my chest look as if it were bound. And yet I kept trying them on. It only took one pass at an off-the-shoulder top last summer to know that that trend was not for me. But in 2014 and early 2015, I couldn't shake myself free of the jumpsuit.

It took many frustrating months for me to find that first pair of skinny jeans, but I kept at it because I wanted them. I needed them. And what did I need nearly a decade later? A jumpsuit. I didn't know why. If I'm being honest, I rarely do when it comes to clothing with this strong a draw. There's no logic. Only longing. 

Almost exactly two years ago, I stepped into an H&M fitting room with a black, white, and gray jumpsuit covered in a big cat print. The color scheme was all me but on the hanger everything else about it was wrong. I rarely wear graphic prints. And it was, of course, a jumpsuit. I was years into my denial about them and happy to stay there. But then I put it on.

Today in Texts: "So this jumpsuit happened today." "Omg, you are basically Solange." pic.twitter.com/gK5V8PQrqt

— Samantha Powell (@sdpowell1) April 10, 2015

It was over. In an instant. Like magic. I couldn't find a single fault. More importantly, I was no longer interested in searching for one.

I am currently outside in a jumpsuit.

It's a brand new day.

— Samantha Powell (@sdpowell1) April 11, 2015

Sunny Side

My memory holds on to pieces of days and events and images with an iron grip that I sometimes wish were a little weaker. Although I don’t know why it holds onto so much, I am often aware of why at times it chooses to push some of its collected fragments to the forefront. A song plays. A pleasant and familiar smell fills the air. The sun filters through the trees in just the right way. And then something inside me stirs. But it’s only often that I know the source of the push. Often but not always.

The site that I use to sift through the various collections out of the various fashion capitals is changing directions come fall, so I spent a large part of a somewhat recent weekend sitting cross-legged on my bed and swapping out pictures on posts labeled “Fashion Month.” There were over 250 to fix. I was, for a time, rather prolific when it came to such matters. The reasons were two-fold. I was learning, still am, and the collections were part of my education. And I needed to keep my underemployment-induced boredom at bay. Or to at least dampen its effects.

Though exhausting, the image replacement exercise felt anything but dull. I was able to experience how much, and how little, my opinions have changed. My growing love of florals and suits. My initial distaste for brights. My brief flirtation with them. My recent rededication to all things navy and gray and cream. It was when going through a collection featured in a long ago Favorite of the Day post from the Spring/Summer 2012 season that I rediscovered a much-loved dress.

While examining it again, I came to realize how much it resembled one that I’d recently added to my closet.

Most of my clothing purchases happen accidentally. Shopping trips with specific goals in mind, especially when undertaken with others in tow, often end in frustration and terse words. But then it’s easy to shop accidentally when one’s curiosity leads to frequent store wanderings. I like examining clothing stores, their layouts and their merchandise, and thinking about what they’re doing right and what they’re doing wrong. It’s a habit with roots that stretch back before my four and a half years in apparel retail, a habit that existed even before my internship at a small buying office in Manhattan in late 2008 and early 2009. I step into stores noting where they keep their menswear section and lightly touching garments that catch my eye. I return home full of questions and conclusions and, sometimes, with a gift for myself.

It was on one of those accidental shopping trips a few days before my most recent birthday that I wandered into a Madewell. Yet again I was in the middle of, though not yet aware that I was in the middle of, a dress buying moment. After years of skinny jeans, it seems that I’ve come back round to the dress. I never abandoned them really. I’d simply come to buy them at a slower rate. But unlike the dresses that I’d collected during my years of living at home, dresses meant for a certain type of work life or peppered with girly confections, the dresses I’ve found myself drawn to for the past few months are much simpler. No bells. Barely any whistles. A few sequins. Navy and black and white and little more. I’ve been gifted dresses that fall outside of these parameters but gifts are another matter altogether.

That day I picked up a shirtdress from the sale section with a boxy silhouette and a block of navy at its bottom that cooled off its bright white top half. Navy and white in combination is a staple of my wardrobe but boxiness is a characteristic that I generally avoid in my clothing. It rarely does my body any favors. But my curiosity often leads me to try on those things that normally make me wary. The size was off at first. I held out little hope that the one I needed would be found in the back but asked for it anyway. When the sales girl returned waving it above her head, I did a little dance in front of the fitting room. While contemplating whether or not I should make it mine, I took a picture and posted it on Twitter.

The connections appear to me often but not always.

I woke up the following Saturday, the day after my birthday, possibly still drunk and definitely suffering from a shameover of immense proportions but with somewhere that I needed to be. Having a friend with a birthday close to yours can be fun when you're younger but my just turned 32-year-old body responded with anger that I was making it do anything but stay in bed watching romcoms and eating pizza. I calculated how long it would take my Uber to deliver me to the scheduled brunch and a Bloody Mary and thanked my overachieving self for choosing an outfit the previous day.

I had worn something more complicated for my own birthday. A jumpsuit. My first jumpsuit. But for a day about someone else, I'd decided to wear that week's purchase and take the more laidback California Samantha out for a spin. Because that was what I had been doing unconsciously doing with all of that dress buying. Getting to the heart of whom I wanted California Samantha to be. And all those years ago, long before I knew that I would pack up and leave my family, my friends, and my books for a life here, an image was already being created. And it started with that dress and that Jenni Kayne collection (and many Jenni Kayne collections that followed).

Who is California Samantha? Well she is evolving. She likes simple dresses in easy shapes. She likes skirts of a similar fashion. She has been stripped of the layers that previously dominated her life. When she decided to cull her closet last month, all of the items she consigned or gave to friends were colorful and printed and, in more ways than one, restrictive. Her skinny jeans have lost their place as default. 

She appears relaxed even when she is not.


Photos via

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.

The Belt

Belts were not a part of my wardrobe during my early and mid teens. After the weight gain of puberty and early adolescence, I loathed the idea of an accessory that consistently let me in on how large my stomach was at any given moment. And as I spent most of high school being a masochist and buying clothes that were a smidge too small in hopes that the discomfort would push me into weight loss, my middle section did a pretty admirable job of holding my pants in place.

But during my first year of college, due to stress, unhappiness and an unwavering allegiance to the gym, I lost weight. A belt became a necessary stopgap measure between the old pants that were sliding past my hips with ease and the new ones that I would have to break down and buy eventually. (By that point I lived in pretty constant fear of suddenly waking up 15 pounds heavier and having nothing to wear because I had gotten rid of all of my old clothes. My rather rational mind can sometimes be overrun by ridiculous thoughts.) As was often the case in those days, I ran across to the local Gap to try and solve my problem.

For nearly a decade since, I’ve placed the same belt through the loops of various pairs of pants. I never knew that I was capable of such allegiance. The Belt is rather utilitarian. Dark brown leather. Over an inch in width. Five notches. At notch three there is considerable wear, though two and four have had their day. It is marked by signs of overuse. The buckle has begun to tarnish. There are loose threads along the stitching. At a stretch along the middle, it curls outward.

Since The Belt entered my wardrobe, I’ve bought many others. Wide, waist cinchers. Thin, woven ornaments. On a coat stand that is no longer a coat stand, all of the belts hang alongside various purses past their prime.

Yet when I get dressed in the morning, I always reach for the same one. I’ve tried many times to replace it. To find a belt that is simple and useful and reasonably priced. But I keep running into little wisps of leather that could barely be called belts or those littered with studs and dyed bright, candy colors. Some of those outliers have found their way home with me, but what I need to replace The Belt is simplicity and utility.

I have yet to find it.

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.

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.

The Vest

I’ve spent the last few weeks floating around Boston in various skirts and dresses. New, old and those never worn. Kicky ponytails and pink scarves and earrings that clink and clang. I have transformed into a veritable fountain of femininity. At least until some sarcastic quip escapes my lips. Until someone says Well you are just sunshine and flowers when they mean the opposite, and I throw my hands up and smirk guiltily.

On an off day, you’ll find me in jeans. It is summer after all, and, as I told someone on the evening that I debuted the Thakoon for Target dress (seen below) that had been sitting in my closet for 18 months, I plan to wear every dress that I own.


While searching for one of those never worn dresses in my closet, I discovered a favorite temporarily forgotten. One that does not fit into the flirty persona that I’ve adopted since the temperature has warmed.

I bought The Vest following The Summer of the Dress. It was one of the last pieces I bought that was a smidge too small for me, though I am glad for that bit of folly as it means that I can still wear it today. It is a deep navy and resembles those often seen in a three-piece suit. It was tailored and sharp at a time that I still favored pieces that allowed me a bit of breath. Things behind which I could still hide the tiniest bit. There was no question of the size of my waist, or my breasts, in The Vest. For this reason it frightened me slightly, but I began to wear it. With jeans skinny and wide. Over tees and oxford shirts. I traded the shape that I gained from wide belts, belts that made the skirts of my dresses billow gently, for that of The Vest. It found itself sitting through multiple internship interviews in the summer of 2008. I began to wear it so much that one of my friends threatened to take it away. In many ways, its lines more closely emulate my character than the flirty pieces. Sometimes rational to a fault. Harboring a love of structure.

Though I love them dearly, the dresses deceive. Sunshine and flowers I am not.

That morning, as I stood holding The Vest, I decided to try it on with some of the new pieces that had entered my closet during its brief retirement. The fit was better. The look was sharp. I had missed the seriousness it seemed to endow me.

Though its best season is the fall, I’m going to remove it from its hiding place. There are ways to wear it this summer. With chambray and gingham. Over a tee worn with an A-line mini. With kicky ponytails and pink scarves and earrings that clink and clang.


Image via

The Jacket

For the past month the weather has flirted with extreme warmth. Days worthy of shorts have popped up between weekends ruined by end times-like rain. But now we've settled into a more pleasant pattern. I am loathe to say this for fear of jinxing myself, but I believe we have seen the last of winter. So with that, the heavier coats of the previous season are slowly finding their way back into my closet.

Near the end of college, when I was taking my first steps in removing my closet of its frumpy elements, I bought a jacket. It is a military green with, if you really look for it, a hint of blue. There is a waist-defining belt. Epaulets with buttons sit on the shoulders. More pockets than I could ever use line the front. It combines a masculine inspiration with a feminine cut. And even five years later, I wear it constantly.

The Jacket's place among my favorites has more to do with its utility than anything else. There was no love at first sight, like there was with some of the others. Instead there was the way it went with everything from the many pairs of jeans that litter my closet to the numerous cocktail dresses that I've accumulated from years of school-related formals and semi-formals. It adds sharpness to my casual pieces and toughens the flirtier aspects of my wardrobe. I wore it a week ago with a white, pinstriped full skirt with box pleats. I wore it on Saturday with pegged jeans. I pair it with colorful scarves and my many headbands and sparkling bracelets.

On one of its recent outings, someone mentioned how much he liked it. How it reminded him of things he'd seen in magazines and in stores. I told him that it wasn't new. That it was almost five years old now. That I liked that it was back in style, but that that wasn't my reason for wearing it. That I didn't plan on buying a new one.

The Laptop Bag

In college, I never owned a bag for my laptop. It was carelessly thrown into my backpack with Locke and Rich and Organic Chemistry textbooks. Power cords tangled with headphone cords. Scratches and pen marks littered the casing. It wasn’t until I started to commute from Brooklyn to Greenwich, CT in the winter of 2006 that I bought a real one. Gotten at a proper office store, it was pink and resembled a large, structured purse. It knocked into people on the 4 train. It sat on the floor of the Metro North. Its straps dug into my shoulder. I loved it. It made me feel like the grownup I barely was.

But it always seemed a bit fake to me. I was playing at a game. And when that job ended, the bag settled into the corner of my apartment stowing bills and miscellaneous papers. It has continued to do so for over two and a half years. It wasn’t until the early months of 2008 that I found its more appropriate replacement.


Yes, it is sitting atop The Coat. It's having an early showing due to the unseasonably warm weather. My green, swing coat peeked out briefly on Sunday.

Like almost all of the favorites, I happened upon this bag by chance. Temping in Manhattan, I had been sent on an errand to pick up a package at the post office. Through no fault of my own, I had to return to our office sans package and then once again head out to the post office. I was annoyed by the second trip, and on my way back with package finally in tow, I naughtily stopped into Brooklyn Industries.

The Laptop Bag was on final sale, and so I spent a good ten minutes considering it. Did I need it? I had a perfectly good laptop bag collecting dust next to my slowly growing mountain of fashion magazines. But the strap on this one looked more comfortable. The pockets were more accessible. Its slimness would make knocking people out on the subway virtually impossible, but it could probably still pack a punch if the need ever arose to use it in such a way. And the pattern made it youthful. I wouldn’t appear to be quite so serious. I tended to have a problem with that.

I still do.

I bought it and snuck back into the office where I hid the shopping bag in the bottom of a desk drawer. I carried the new bag out as if I had had it with me the entire time. No one noticed a thing.

The Boots

In high school, and through most of college, I only bought boots that hit me mid-calf. Clunky and awkward. Aging me quickly. Most of them are still here in my mother's house, collecting dust among my old toys and books. Sometimes I look at them and think about what might have possessed me to get them. But this is a sentiment I have when it comes to many of my clothing from those days.

By the winter of 2005, I had been looking for a pair of knee-high leather boots for months without much success. It wasn't until I found myself on an outing with a family friend that I finally found one. Black leather. Zippers on the inner part of the leg for easy entry. Sturdy wedges. I wore them all of the time. With skirts and dresses. With my first pair of skinny jeans. I wore them so much that I busted through one of the heels. I continued to wear them even after that until finally giving them over to a trusty cobbler.


My best friend calls them my Power Ranger boots, especially when I tuck my pants into them. As if putting them on suddenly endows me with super strength or speed or brains.

They garner unwanted attention from random men. As if putting them on suddenly makes me easy.

I have a tendency to strut in them. Over cobblestone and concrete. Through puddles of slush. Especially when my iPod lands on the raucous pop music that I only listen to when not around others.

They and The Sneakers are my two oldest pairs of shoes, but I've never forgotten these. Even for a moment.

The Perfume

I had lunch recently with a friend, and she said When Samantha is a beauty editor, I'll get lots of products. I had to remind her that I know nothing about beauty. (That fact is secondary considering that I don't choose to live in the fantasy world where I'll be the editor of anything one day.)

I know that my face products, all drug store bought, work. I know that I like to buy things from Kiehl's occasionally because their products are like beauty crack, and they give you 25 samples of everything before you leave. I like going to Dominican hair salons because it's always low key and my hair has never looked better. (She put vinegar in my hair last week. Vinegar! Like from a glass bottle that you would keep under the sink. I was shocked and then elated by the results.) And I know that I've liked my various past perfumes simply because they smelled pretty.

When I was temping in early 2008, I did a stint at a boutique Public Relations firm. My boss at the time went on a business trip to Paris. As often occurs when bosses go on such trips, there were gifts to be had upon her return. My gift was a bottle of perfume. Casmir by Chopard. It sat in my bathroom cabinet for months still sealed in its box. Stella and I were still in the midst of our two year affair. But one day, it would spritz no more. I hadn't realized how low it had gotten, and I finally had to open the little red box that was sitting next to my extra toothbrushes.

It was a light scent, key in my world as anything too heavy makes me feel a bit like a little girl playing at being an adult. There were some florals, some fruits and a hint of sweetness to the smell that I liked. And though my mother took my birthday that year as a chance to replace the Stella with Tom Ford, I still found myself reaching for the little red box everyday.

It is finally reaching the end of its run, and I can't decide if I should replace it. In the past I often took the emptiness of a perfume bottle as a sign to try something new. But it's possible that this time I've become too attached to the simplicity. And to the sweetness.

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.

Homecomings

When I haven't seen someone in a long time, the first thing I notice is how much, or how little, they've changed.

I moved back to Boston over three weeks ago to weather the employment and economic storm for a time without the burden of rent and bills. It was a necessary move and not one that I was at all happy about. I had my little life in Brooklyn. Small routines and local hangouts. I hadn't spent more than a weekend in Boston in over two years. After enjoying the comforts that came with spending some time in the city of my birth, I would begin itching to get back home. Because that was what New York had become.

Interestingly enough, one of the most jarring things for me to deal with has been the conservative manner of dress that pervades this city. The changes that I had undergone weren't obvious until a few days after my return. Before the rains descended upon us, I pulled out The Dress, placed my laptop in a bright green bag and walked to the nearest coffee shop with my laptop. After being shocked, shocked, that not every café here has wireless available, I decided to head back to the house. It was on that return trip that I took my first real look at those around me. There I was, swathed in color and looking out of place. I wasn't used to it. On an afternoon later that week, three different people in one short trip to Whole Foods stared at me before approaching and asking about the long, maroon cardigan I had simply thrown on to keep out the unseasonable chill. In New York, I rarely stuck out. I blended in with the blur of people wearing all manner of outfit, from the gray suit to the acid washed skinny jean to the patterned maxi dress. My wardrobe had its shining moments, but for the most part, people's eyes slid right by me. I liked it that way. Here, however, I was decidedly other.

I've spent large chunks of my life being decidedly other. It's always made me mildly uncomfortable. My clothes, however, had never been the cause. I wasn't sure how to handle it. After the rains came, I began to feel restless. I was rather tempted to do something drastic. Rip holes in my tights. Splash bleach all over The Jeans before turning them into shorts. I was fearful that I would begin to fade away and fall back on bad habits to deal with my discomfort.

I took a breath. Or several. I realized that the constant dreariness was affecting me. That a break here didn't mean that I would backslide into the person I once was. That once the sun finally broke, I could remove the dresses from their hiding place. Shake them out. Put them on. And that people might look, but that is not necessarily a bad thing.

That, in this case, sticking out isn't something that should bother me.

The Tiara

I'm still wavering about what to wear for my birthday. At the moment, nothing in my closet is appealing to me. There is one item, however, that is firmly decided upon.


I bought this tiara last year for my 25th. It was about $3 at the local Party City. I didn't spend long in the birthday-related aisle before making my way to the cashier with this one in tow. I wasn't very excited about the prospect of turning 25. In fact, I dreaded it. Feeling unaccomplished while turning a year older never leaves one ready to party. Especially when that birthday is a milestone. But something about the pink and the purple and the general sparkliness made me giddy. It reminded me of the silver Happy Birthday tiara my mother presented me with on my fourth birthday. I sat in the middle of the living room with my legs crossed opening my presents and feeling particularly special and loved.

I don't remember the gifts I received that year. There were possibly a few Barbie related items and some clothes, but I remember the tiara. I held onto it for years. It might still be hiding somewhere in my mother's house. Hidden along with the now frightening doll that's heart and crown only lit up when you shook her as hard as you could. (Thank goodness I didn't have any younger siblings that my little self could try this trick on.)

To say that I'm feeling anxious about the prospect of this upcoming birthday wouldn't be a stretch by any means. But one thing that does calm me about it is this plastic novelty. Looking utterly ridiculous walking along Brooklyn streets while receiving Happy Birthdays from strangers. Taking many pictures as it sits upon my head.

Blowing out a candle set in my favorite restaurant's bread pudding and making a wish.

The Sneakers

I'm finally taking a break from the cleaning frenzy I entered a few hours ago. The dishwasher is running. The bathroom smells like cleaning products. But my shoes, as always, are still scattered all over my apartment. They're always the last things I organize. And the first things to return to their original state. I can see beneath my futon from where I sit, and there are at least seven pairs residing there. Mostly forgotten as things that are partially hidden have a tendency to become. Living there now are my favorite pair of sneakers. Beat up blue and orange Sauconys.


Also featured: an old H&M bag, a pair of Marc by Marc Jacobs flip flops I never wear and the leg of my Gap skinny jeans.

I've never really been a sneaker person. Flats and boots and the occasional heels are my loves. In my life, sneakers are for the gym or really, horribly, nasty rainy days. When I do wear sneakers out, they're usually of the more fashion variety. A pair from Lacoste that would never make it through a marathon, much less a light jog. Or a pair of light green plaid Chucks.

But this old, ratty pair has been around longer than all of those. Actually it's been around longer than any of the shoes currently in my rotation. They've never seen the inside of a gym, but they have seen rain, snow, sleet, wind and beer to the point where I actually had to throw them into the washing machine (don't ask). If they were a child, they'd be wrapping up the first grade and preparing for a summer vacation filled with mud pies and hopscotch.

In the past, I would sometimes leave them alone for months before happily rediscovering them on a day when none of my many flats would do. When I wanted to be able to wander my neighborhood without wincing and cursing under my breath. But now, they don't go long without being worn. Even on days where there is no rain.

The Coat

For the past few weeks, I've been relying on one coat above all others. My mother bought The Coat at some point during my college years. I don't remember exactly when it made its way into my life, but I do remember that I wasn't exactly enamored with it. It was a bit small, and, I thought, a bit boring. An interesting response from me considering that college wasn't a time in my life when I necessarily cared all that much about my clothing.

But I cared enough to know that I didn't like it. I often left it hanging in my closet in favor of my long, black coat or my puffy jacket. Last winter with a good amount of weight gone and a relatively mild winter, I wore the coat more and more. I came to love its hidden surprises. The outer pattern that from a distance appeared to be a single color but revealed itself upon closer inspection.


The cream silk lining with the roses painted on it.


I thought I was the only one who took notice of these things, but every time I wear it, someone comments on it. People touch it. Pet it. Finger the lining. It's beautiful, but is it warm?

Sometimes Yes. Sometimes No. It's thinner than my long, black coat. It has buttons that snap in the front and are prone to opening of their own accord. I pile lime green, crew neck sweaters and cable knit, black cardigans underneath it. I either hold it shut using one of my wide belts or I let it fly open. Flapping behind me in the breeze as I walk. People wrapped tightly in their puffers stare at me as I pass.

I wear it on days that I shouldn't and shiver.

Requiem

The jeans are dead.

On the way home after getting a drink at a local bar tonight, I slipped. I was stone cold sober and a block and a half away from my front door. I had slipped in these shoes before. In fact, I was wearing the same pair of jeans. But this time, I almost performed a split. As I began to collect myself, I noticed a huge rip at the right knee of the jeans. Maybe I could have lived with that. But the crotch had also experienced a tear that could not be fixed. As I further assessed the damage, I realized that I had also torn through the tights I had put on underneath my jeans to keep out the cold. And to make matters worse, I had lost a good amount of skin to the pavement. I sat on the ground for two minutes. As I limped home, I reconciled myself with the end.

After I entered my apartment and turned on the light, I stripped them off for the final time. The inside was stained with the blood that had poured from my knee. I left them on the floor and made my way to the bathroom to tend to my wound.

Now to find a new pair to break in and make my own.

The (Many Pairs of) Jeans

Over the course of my life, I've had many favorite pairs of jeans. This might have to do with the fact that I often wear them until holes begin appearing in unfortunate places. Or maybe my mother accidentally gets bleach on the leg. Or a pen explodes all over them. Or I accidentally throw them in the super hot dryer, and they shrink. It always seems that at the exact moment that I decide I can't live without a certain pair, some catastrophe befalls them. At the moment, there are six pairs of jeans in my closet in various styles and washes. The pair closest to my heart and, therefore, closest to demise, is a pair of slim bootcut 7 for all Mankinds.


Like most of my favorite pieces, I wasn't searching for a new pair of jeans when I bought these. One pair of skinnies had already met its end and another was on its way there. My Joe's were my workhorse jeans, but for the most part, I wore skirts and dresses and tights. Yet when I found these on one of my many window shopping adventures through Second Time Around, there was no way I was leaving Boston without them.

More versatile than both my flares and my skinnies, they immediately became a wardrobe staple, especially as fall and winter approached. I dress them up. I dress them down. They make my legs appear slimmer and longer. I wear them with sneakers and metallic flats. Form fitting cowl neck sweaters and loose tanks.

When this pair meets its end, which will probably be sooner as opposed to later, I'll mourn them heavily. Unlike dresses and headbands, jeans take work. You have to break them in. They generally start uncomfortable and maybe a bit too snug, even the ones with stretch. You tug and sigh and then one day that's all done. They are perfect. And after all of that, it hurts to give them up. To think of starting all over again with a different pair. Even if it's the same brand and cut.

But that day isn't here yet.


Photo via

The Headband

Early in my post-collegiate career, when I was living at home and not necessarily all that interested in my general appearance, I bought three headbands from H&M. Two simple full bands in black and red and a brown woven full band. I mainly wore them to cover up the fact that my hair was in dire need of a trip to the salon.

After I moved to New York in the winter of 2006, I began to accrue more of them. Thin and thick and in all sorts of colors. One day, while at a beauty supply store, I came across a scarf like one. It was black with white polka dots, and it tied at the back. At $1.50 there was no reason, in my mind, to leave the store without it. I probably wore it more than was necessary. Okay, I definitely wore it more than was necessary. I wore it to the point where the scarf piece became dislodged from the black, plastic frame that gave it its shape.


And then I continued to wear the scarf by itself. With skinny jeans tucked in boots and sweaters in the winter. With a green swing coat and brown flats. With simple summer dresses in solid colors.

In a way, it's become a pacifier. Something that I can put on when I'm not sure about the rest of my look. A fall back. A safety net.

Everyone has pieces that fall into that category. The Headband is mine. More than anything else I own. In a wardrobe devoid of patterns, save one, it goes with everything. So unlike the simple black and the shiny pink and the green and navy striped, which rarely enter the rotation, this one doesn't go a week without leaving my apartment.