Life Goals and Such

I'm up at the unseemly hour of 9:19 AM all dressed and sitting, once again, at my favorite coffee shop acting like I have an actual freelance job. Though with the frequency that I post here, this blog could be considered a job. A job that doesn't pay and in which I am judge, jury and executioner.

But, nonetheless, a job. And the first one that I've enjoyed in awhile.

In one of my high school French classes, my teacher told us that we would have many jobs during our lives. I didn't believe her. In my mind, you went to college then grad school then spent over 40 years basically doing the same thing. There was a comfort in such a linear life. And at 16, everything in my mind progressed along straight lines. Let's be honest, it was 1999. The times were good. Not that they're bad now. But everything seems rosy when you're an obnoxiously smart teenager.

Last night on one of my Fort Greene/Clinton Hill evening walks, I wondered if I would have been happier with the straight line kind of life. If all this meandering was worth the insecurity and hurt feelings and pounds lost. Okay, it was definitely worth the pounds lost. But what about all the other bullshit? I've met some great people. I've wandered onto a path, finally, that I am passionate about. I get to see movies and take bubble baths in the middle of the day. So, for all of the crazy, I think that I'll reach my next milestone birthday (oy, 30) and be able to say that all of this was an unfortunate yet necessary detour on the way to the land of Happy and Fulfilled.

Wait, what is this blog about again? Oh, right. Fashion.


I love Sari Gueron. And so should everyone else.


Photo via

Beginnings

Every time I start a post with when I was little, I feel like I'm meandering into Vogue territory. Near the front of the book, they usually have a story from a writer about how the lipstick color her mother wore when she was seven or her school uniform or something else equal parts sweet and annoying still informs her style today.

But I can't help it. I'm surprised by how much the choices that I made at the ages of four and five still affect me.

There's a certain fear that small children lack. They can pull off some of the most ridiculous clothing because they have no idea that it is ridiculous. Little girls walk around filled with glee at the big flowers, the bright colors, the stripes on their tights and the mismatching barrettes in their hair.

The ages of four to nine were some of my best dressed years. A long hiatus set in after the weight gain and curves of puberty made themselves known. Back then I was best described as a twig. All limbs and sharp corners. And, in some ways, very assertive and decisive. My name is Samantha, not Sam. Sam is a boy's name. I was a very serious kindergartner.

In elementary school, I had a pair of boldly patterned tights that I wore as often as my mother would let me. They resembled a forest canopy. Covered in luscious green leaves that occasionally gave a peek of blue sky. I think there might have been a bird on them. No, seriously. A bird. But in my young mind, that was the best part.

It took years for me to take those types of risks again.

But isn't that the point? Back then, I didn't see tights covered in a leaf pattern as a risk. They were simply what I liked. That reason alone was enough to wear them all of the time.

And that's why almost every post starts with when I was little. Because after the dark years, I'm finally rediscovering that what matters most about what I wear is how I feel about it.

Take The A Line

I haven't bought a non-denim skirt in awhile.


I blame the dress obsession for that oversight.


Photo via

Pencils

I believe that every large change that happens in one's life is precipitated by a single moment.

At a party on Saturday, someone mentioned that there was one piece that she could pinpoint as starting a shift in her style. It got me wondering if I had such a piece sitting in my closet.

During my senior year of college, I bought my first pencil skirt. It's black with a little stretch. It falls right below the knee with a small slit in the front center. The buttons, as opposed to being flat and black, are round and filled with small crystal-like pieces.

The pencil skirt proved a departure for me. A departure that has now became the norm. After years of buying clothes meant to hide and distract, I bought something that did everything but that. It was cut slimly. It was made to draw attention to my shape.

From there I bought shorter skirts. Tighter dresses. Fitted tops.

And all this, in turn, caused me to stop spending my time in the shadows. I'm still quiet and shy. Socializing quickly drains me of energy. But, for some reason, the clothes now in my closet make me stand out. People take notice of them. I don't disappear beneath unflattering fabrics.

Now only to inject some color besides yellow.

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.

Let Your Prep Flag Fly

J.Crew and I have a complicated relationship that we'll get into later. But unlike The Gap, my love for the place has only grown.

And my love for this jacket is incalculable.


I'm having such a yellow phase right now. Apparently I can only add one color at a time to my wardrobe.


Photo via

The Tights

In the past, sexy was not a word that I associated with myself. Smart. Sarcastic. Sometimes Silly. All of these descriptors were easy for me to take on. To claim as my own. But sexy? Ha.

As I've gotten older, wiser and better dressed, I've slowly been able to accept that there are times when I am sexy. And I've started to buy clothes specifically with that purpose in mind. I'm not talking deep v-necks and clear plastic stilettos but dresses tailored to show off certain parts while camouflaging others and pretty heels that showcase my legs.

Sometime during my sophomore year of college, at the beginning of this transformation, I walked into a Banana Republic during a Make Myself Feel Better shopping spree. After picking up a new pair of jeans, I walked around the accessories section looking at shoes and started glancing at the tights. I hadn't worn tights since Catholic School. They reminded me of furiously scratching my legs while wearing unfortunate plaids. But the fishnets that I found in my hand that day were not like the woolen prisons in which I had once encased my knobby knees. The diamonds were larger than I had seen in similar tights. It would be almost as if I were wearing nothing. When I flipped them over and saw the sale sticker, my decision was made for me. I left with them and the jeans.

The jeans became one of my favorites until they had a run-in with some bleach after my senior year. The small sense of adventure that had gripped me the day I bought The Tights didn't lead to my wearing them. They were placed in the side pocket of a piece of luggage and didn't see the light of day until I found them while unpacking after my move to New York.

Moving in the dead of winter didn't help their cause much. But last spring, with a work event to go to, I pulled them on under a simple skirt. Having recently become fascinated with my legs, I liked the way they made them look. They lifted the outfit out of the mundane. They pulled focus away from my top half where I spend a lot of time artfully hiding imperfections. My black opaque tights, which I love and wear constantly during the fall and winter months, never caused as much of a stir. These were sexy without being over the top.

They gave a flash. A hint. A coy smile. A small wink.