Color Wheel

Despite what the subsequent heatwave might have wanted me to believe, I’ve felt the end of summer looming since the 4th of July. And with its end, the trends for fall have settled into many, if not all, stores. Most trends don’t need too many instructions. So leopard is popular. Do you want it in a shoe? A scarf? A bag? A pair of high-waisted pants? The choice of how much or how little or none at all is yours. But some trends present more of a slippery slope.

The ease of composing multi-piece outfits out of items in bold, solid colors fades away as one gets older. A quick walk through a playground, or a trip through an old photo album, reveals how easy it is for children to do just that. There is a carefree nature to dressing at that age, as there should be when your bright yellow pants will probably end up covered in dirt or chocolate or finger paint or fruit juice by the end of the day, and every color seems to go well with every other color.

But with age comes the urge to "tone down" bright colors with something in the neutral family, like a black, a white, a gray, or a navy, overtakes us. The easiest way to move away from that impulse is to include one piece that does the colorblocking for you and to add on from there with items like a brightly hued pair of tights or a vibrant shoe.

Ailanto

Joseph

Isabel Marant Etoile

A.L.C.

The other option is to chose pieces in those shades you sometimes shy away from and style your outfit accordingly. That path can lead to more creativity and more excitement but also more mistakes, so it's best to start with one piece and build from there. In this case, I chose a pair of bright blue jeans by J Brand.

From there, it's easiest to begin with colors that live a good deal away from blue on the color wheel. Mustard yellow reappears every autumn and is a perfect complement to the candy color of the jeans.

Especially when it comes in a swing sweater from H&M.

And is finished with tiger print stilettos by Isabel Marant.

A cool, berry tone, much like the one this slouchy Rogan sweater is found in, is the perfect antidote for those whom find yellow to be rather unkind.

A pair of short Frye boots give the look a relaxed, weekend feel.

But for most, it’s not complementary colors that cause problems but playing with colors in the same family that presents difficulties. There’s the possibility that you’ll choose shades that are so similar that you’ll look like one definitive stroke of paint. On the other hand if the shades are just off, you’ll seem hopelessly mismatched.

However, a deep navy, like in this sweater from Marc by Marc Jacobs, will simply dampen the shocking nature of the jeans.

And bright green loafers by Topshop will add an additional pop that breaks up the blocks of blue.

In the end, all of that color and all of that playfulness will act as a shield as the long nights and short days of winter approach.



Images via, via, via, via, via, via, via

Favorite of the Day: Iceberg

First and foremost, when I get dressed in the fall and winter, I think of how to stay warm. Stylishness, though not forgotten, comes second. There are exceptions of course, but I try to remember that not loosing feeling in my extremities should always be at the front of my mind. Finding those items that will keep you warm while also allowing some expression of individuality can be difficult. To wear those heavier fabrics of the season without getting lost in them can seem impossible.

At Iceberg, tweeds and nubby, thick knits dominated.

But they came in cuts and colors that allow the wearer to peak through.


Photos via 

Romper Room

When I look at what people are wearing as they pass me by, I am culling information. Noticing how they put together their outfits. Storing away compelling combinations. Judgments are not the first things to form. Yet because of this blog and the sometimes strong personal opinions that I present here, I've been to more than one gathering where someone has mentioned that they spent longer thinking about what to wear because they knew that I would be present.

No one need worry. I have not titled myself judge, jury, and executioner. However, there are some wardrobe choices that I can’t help but judge. Tights worn as pants. Leggings worn as pants. Jeggings. Items that look like someone simply lifted the pattern from the 1980s. I could come up with a few more if I gave myself time, but the list wouldn't grow much in length.

The arrival of the sun and its long, luxurious days has forced another into my view.

I don't know who decided that rompers should become a viable option for females over the age of eight. I had rompers at one point in my life. I probably dirtied them rather easily as I had a liking for digging holes and playing with worms at a young age. But then I grew up and out of clothes meant to compliment diapers and pigtails and ringlets and playgrounds.

Even with the infantilizing nature of rompers (or playsuits if one wants to leave no doubt that you have stolen your outfit from a four year old), my distaste would be moot if I'd ever seen anyone look even mediocre in one. The issue with any one-piece item, but especially those involving a pants-like element, is that rare is the woman who is the same size on the top and the bottom. That's why finding a bikini sold in a set is nearly impossible. Why almost all suits are offered in separates. Because if bought in one, there will inevitably be one piece that fits perfectly while the other does not.

And above all else, I believe fit is the most important thing. Even more important than not looking like you belong on a swing set.

Homecomings Revisited

After I finished writing about my evolving relationship with color, one passage in particular stuck out to me.

But during the past year, I've begun to change. Slowly and with much deliberation but change nonetheless.

Moving back to Boston almost one year ago has affected how I dress more than any other event in my life. From the beginning, I was steely in my determination not to change back into the girl I had been before. I wanted to continue on the path to adulthood that graduating from college and starting my first real job and moving to a new city had forced me on to. To most clothing would have little to do with such growth, and, to those people, this probably sounds silly. We’re just talking about dresses and shirts and skirts and shoes here. They can’t mean all that much. But for me they are an outward manifestation of all that has changed internally. Injecting color. Shortening hems. These were all ways to stop myself from retreating back into the cozy shell that had at once been so comforting and stifling.

As recently as a few months ago, I thought of most of the clothes I come across in stores, in magazines, and on the various blogs that I peruse daily as items for later. Or for fantasies. I was always too much of one thing or not enough of something else to pull them off. There was no room for them in my life or my closet. They were for those bold others.

In more ways than one, I’ve tired of not being one of those bold others. And though New York changed me somewhat in that respect, I became lazy in a way. My style followed suit. I grew to a certain point and then stopped because further growth wasn’t necessary. Because I was an adult. Living on my own. Staying out as late as I liked. Choosing what to do with my time.

Part of the package when one has to move back to that place one once called home is, in some ways, being forced back into the role of child. But nothing will cause you to become more of an adult than fighting against that as hard as you can.

Last week, on one of my window shopping adventures, I tried on the black and non-sequined version of this 3.1 Phillip Lim dress while in Barneys.

When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I didn’t, as I had done in the past, shy away from the woman looking back at me.

I was, and am, done with that.


Photo via

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.

The Other Side

I've been trying for quite awhile to increase my knowledge of men's clothing. About fits and cuts. About how to match ties with shirts with pocket squares. About how many pairs of shoes a man needs. Last month I even bought my first issue of GQ. This purchase may have had something to do with the picture featuring the men of True Blood in tuxedos or the fact that the hometown quarterback was on the cover, but I actually read the words too.


I couldn't let you go without including at least one of the pictures, but now back to the story at hand.

I’ve tried my usual store wanderings to try and get an understanding of what’s on offer for men. I’ve slowly made my way through the mazes of the H&M, Saks, Barneys and Filene’s Basement men’s departments. I looked closely at the suits. Examined the patterns. Took note of how the mannequins were styled. How the products were merchandised. And then I get home all jumbled and think yeah, I still don’t get it.

I feel like I should do interviews. Have a list of 40 in depth questions to ask a sampling of men about how they dress. But this is just the analytical part of my mind taking over and talking crazy. Trying to keep in check the part of me that simply thinks, well he’s very, very pretty, so who cares why he's wearing a three piece suit as opposed to a two piece option.

I'm going to have to force my brain to meet somewhere in the middle.


Photo via

The Rabbit Hole

Today, after yet another staffing agency interview, I didn't want to be anywhere near my gray, pinstriped pants. They, much like these pants, now had the stench of the desperation brought on by my unemployment all over them. After removing them, I stomped around the house looking for something to wear.

There was a time, not all that long ago, when I wore sweats. But now they make me feel sloppy. Even when I'm inside. By myself. With nothing to do for hours but write cover letters.

There was an autumnal chill on the air today, so I left the windows open wide before finally deciding to throw on an old, now oversized, oxford shirt and a pair of opaque black tights. After putting something together for lunch and settling in for an afternoon sitting by the window with my computer, I realized why people sometimes made the mistake of wearing tights as pants.

Tights are one of those items that are hard to fuck up. Though they can become uncomfortable at times, they are also slimming. Hiding lumps and bumps on your legs. Keeping secret the fact that the weather has made you far too lazy to deal with the hassle of shaving. Thighs that sometimes rub together in an uncomfortable way slip and slide past each other with ease. Your legs are warm, but you can still feel the wind. The chill only reaching the surface of the skin as opposed to penetrating to the bone.

When I decided it was time for a break, also known as some ice cream, I almost skipped to the kitchen. How comfortable I was. How free I felt. If I had thrown on one of my vintage 80s blazers (shoulder pads thankfully removed), I would have fit in most anywhere below 14th street and over the East River.

And that's when I realized that the ease of being that comfortable could make the next step of putting on some shoes and walking out of the house simple. One riding boot and then the next. A jaunt down the stairs. And suddenly all that stands between you and the crisp Boston air is a door.

I never made it to that point. I like my clothes to be comfortable. But I also like them to be actual clothes and not accessories masquerading as such. When I reminded myself of that, staying home and enjoying the air as it came through the window didn't seem all that bad.

Back to the Future (Again)

Let's talk about this 80s thing for a moment, shall we?

I was born in 1983. My early childhood was filled with stirrup pants and body suits and windbreakers and very, very bright colors. Denim on denim on even more denim. And the florals. My goodness, the ugly florals that I loved to death. I lived that time. Sure I was young and I wasn't really picking out my own clothes, but I wore all of the trends. And when their time passed, I was done with them. (This might explain why my wardrobe only contains white, black, blue, gray, pink and sometimes yellow now and is devoid of patterns.)

I was definitely not ready to see the clothes of that period return. It makes me feel old. Not that I am old. I'm not one of those young people who has no concept of the fact that she is, in fact, young. I know that I am. So let's rephrase that. Seeing 80s fashions return makes me feel older. But that only explains a fraction of my distaste.

During my adventures through stores of many stripes, I often try on things I would never, ever purchase, even if I were flush with cash. A recent trip to H&M featured a lot of this. I entered the fitting room and examined what I had picked up. A red and yellow striped tunic, or possibly dress if you're so inclined, completely covered in sequins. And a dress with the over-sized shoulders that have been everywhere since the early Spring.



I felt like I was playing dress up when I put them on. Or preparing for a Dynasty-themed party. I kept poking at the shoulders of the dress and watching as they collapsed slightly before I restored their shape. I became mesmerized by the way the sequined tunic made the light dance on the white walls before remembering that I utterly hate being the center of attention. And there would be no way to avoid that in such a piece.

For me, a lot of the clothing feels like costume. Fashion designers are always referencing the past. But many of the clothes I see don't feel like they are inspired by the 80s. They feel like they are from the 80s. Like someone opened my mother's closet or went through my sister's wardrobe, picked out some of their dresses and acid-washed jeans and blazers from 1985 and copied them stitch for stitch. And if any decade lends itself to quickly falling into the category of costume when not handled correctly, it is the 80s with all of its flash and all of its excess.

It's a fine line that few can navigate.


Photos via

The Wallet

This is not a Favorite Pieces post.

I don't get bored with things easily. In fact, if I really love something, I wear it as often as I can and end up mourning its eventual demise.

But as with all things in life, the usual is not the always.

On Sunday, when I went to grab my wallet out of my bag to pay for a new pair of skinny jeans at Second Time Around, I took a real look at it for the first time in months.

I bought my current wallet during my first trip to Century 21 in the fall of 2005. My wallet at the time was falling to pieces, and I needed something to replace it. I was still in the early stages of my fashion education and chose the simplest one available. Its one exciting feature was its blood red color, and for me, at that time, that was enough. I quickly became bored with it but never enough to replace it. It still performed its function and was only taken out of my bag when there was money to be exchanged. So what if it was fraying at the seams now? Or that the leather had lost all of its previously held structure? The few minutes that people glimpsed it weren't all that important.

But Sunday afternoon, I placed it on the glass case that the register stood on as I waited for my debit card to be approved and looked at the set of shelves behind the girl handling my sale. All of the most expensive items lived there, held for safekeeping. The designer shoes and designer bags. And a few designer wallets. And though I didn't want those, I realized that I did want something new. Needed something new. The Wallet didn't fit into my life anymore. It was time for it to be replaced.

It is the last discernible remnant of a Samantha that no longer exists. One for whom good enough was acceptable when making a purchase. Now, no matter whether it's a $4 bracelet from H&M or a pair of Joe's Jeans, good enough is never good enough.

And so the search begins for a replacement.

Oceanfront

I could go down the typical female route here and say that I hate shopping for bathing suits, but that would be a lie. I love shopping for anything. Books. DVDs. Baked Goods. Groceries. Pens. (God I love pens. I used to horde my pens in middle school. And each class had a different color pen assigned to it for note taking. And I placed them in the individual pen holders in the front pocket of my L.L. Bean monogrammed backpack. Because I was, and am, a dork. And that is what dorks do.)

During that extremely warm spell we had here in New York a month ago, I pulled out the brown tankini that I bought three summers ago. I hadn't worn it since last summer and decided that I should see how it fits before swimming season begins in earnest. The results were not good. There was a lot of unfortunate sagging, and it was instantly clear that it would have to be replaced.

When it comes to bathing suits, I go for function over style. I try to remember function when shopping for most of my clothes, but I have bought things that border on ridiculous. However, there is room for more freedom in my clothing purchases as I don't have to go swimming in them.

And that's what bathing suits are for above all else. Swimming. Maybe it's that tanning never enters my consciousness because I am brown to begin with, but I can't imagine buying a suit that's only purpose is looking pretty. That's like buying a pair of jeans that can only be worn while standing. I can't fathom such a thing. So I end up with suits like these.

From Urban Outfitters:


From J.Crew:


Functional yet pretty. Versatile enough that I wouldn't have to buy a new suit for a few years. I can, however, become easily seduced by suits like these.

From Anthropologie:


From J.Crew...again:


(Yes, I know that last one involves seersucker. I stopped denying my preppy leanings about four years ago.)

These suits, while perfectly fine for others, would never work for me. Like with my real clothes, I need structure. And these have little. But as with the double-breasted coats, I am tempted.

And then I remind myself that flashing half of the beach while playing in the surf is never, ever a good thing.


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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.


Photos via, via

Shape Up

My recent flakiness can be explained by a long week of The Olympics and happy hours and watching people do unfortunate karaoke renditions of Creep.

A few weeks ago while on the subway with my best friend, a seat opened up. I told her to take it as I continued to stand. I was wearing the wide leg jeans I bought at H&M near the beginning of the summer when she looked up at me and said It's not that your thin, you just have the right shape for those pants.

Don't think that this was a backhanded compliment. It wasn't. It was merely an observation on her part and a correct one. I am firmly a double digit size, and that's probably not changing anytime soon, no matter how much my stress level affects my eating habits. When I was in middle and high schools, I hated that fact. It's not that I'm necessarily pleased with my body at the moment, but I've come to terms about how I should be dressing it. When I was younger, everything was about the size. I bought clothes in a size smaller thinking that this action would provide the push I needed to lose weight. Instead I ended up looking at a closet crammed with ill-fitting clothes while eating a cookie.

It wasn't until I was older that I understood that badly fitting clothes added pounds. And usually this visual trickery occurred in the most unfortunate of spots. For me that was always the middle as my stomach hung over pants and skirts that barely closed. When I stopped obsessing about the number on the tag inside my clothing, I could finally focus on what was really important.

Shape in clothing is everything. And I'm not talking about this curvy, boyish, full-figured bullshit that you see in every women's magazine. What if you are a larger size but boyish in shape? What if you are short and thin? What if you, like me, are busty with small hips? There are too many possible combinations to try and squeeze yourself into just one category.

So I don't anymore. I search for certain silhouettes. I try everything on. And I remind myself that sometimes the rules that I've made for myself should be broken.

Judgy Wudgy Was A Bear

I spent most of yesterday sitting in a local cafe poaching their internet because Time Warner Cable is stupid and there was an outage in my area.

I get very little work done when I go there. I eat cupcakes. Sweet, sweet cupcakes. And caffeinate myself. And then I get the fidgets and spend my time smiling at babies and trying to look/not look at cute guys. So while I like to pretend that I'm being productive there, nothing gets accomplished. When I get bored of boys and babies, my little perch provides the perfect place from which to examine people's outfits. I'm on this kick of trying to be less judgmental, but I sometimes find myself shocked back into that behavior. By the sugar station yesterday, a girl stood wearing purple footless tights with a blue t-shirt and flip flops. It wasn't one of those shirts that could maybe sorta pass for a dress if the person were three inches shorter. It was a straight up t-shirt.

I have an issue with leggings/tights being worn as pants. I can accept most things. Okay, that's a lie. I try to accept most things. I'm learning. It's a process. But leggings as pants is one thing that I'll never ever ever be able to abide.

I forced myself to focus on the positive. She had nice legs. And I actually loved the color of the tights. Under a little black dress, or in any other combination but the one she was wearing, they would add a nice punch. As someone who generally looks schlumpy in t-shirts, I was slightly envious of the way hers seemed to look effortless and laid back. I had talked myself back from the edge.

And then she turned around to reveal the t-shirt tucked into a pair of hot pink booty shorts being worn over the tights.

Well at least she wasn't pantsless.

Picking It Out, Trying It On

Bad moods have been abundant this week. Maybe it's just me, but whenever one large thing goes wrong, all of the small things follow. I've broken one glass, one necklace and now must watch as my cursor spins for five full minutes before iTunes recognizes my iPod.

How am I combating the winds that are intent on crumbling my tenuous house of cards? By intricately planning every outfit. There are two main rules that I have for myself. Firstly, I never leave the house in lounge wear. When my gym membership was active, I would put on actual clothes and carry my yoga pants/shorts/t-shirts with me in a bag. Of course, there are exceptions. Killer hangovers lend themselves to old jeans and collegiate sweatshirts, but those times are few and far between. One, because I usually stay inside eating eggs and guzzling water when hungover. Two, working from home means any forays into weekday drinking can be combated in private the next morning as opposed to laying on the floor of your office hoping that your boss doesn't walk in unexpectedly.

Secondly, I try not to spend more than 15 minutes deciding what to wear. I've never been one of those girls who had to change 12 times before going out. Sometimes I change one piece. Put on jeans instead of cropped pants. Switch skirts. Throw on a dress instead. But that's it. This habit is born out of the fact that I hate being late and have been held up far too many times by people who can't make up their minds. Also, I like sleeping in. I spent my entire childhood and adolescence begging my mother for five more minutes. I don't see the point in wasting that time being indecisive.

The past week I've been doing a lot of number one and almost none of number two. In the face of uncertainty, I've made a point to try and look as put together as possible. I scour my closet and my dresser for several minutes. I try on clothes and throw them onto my futon in frustration. I must look perfect. I must construct a wall of defense to keep away the questions. How are you? What are you going to do?

Right now, I'm wearing a black tank with a dangly necklace and a blue and white miniskirt that I've barely worn since I bought it on sale at Banana Republic last summer.


And where am I going? Blockbuster.