Leandra Medine's Blog, page 574

Instagram Accounts to Unfollow in 2016

For your sanity and the sake of starting 2016 with a clean slate (especially if you can’t deal with your closet yet), it’s time to break out your social media scissors and unfollow the following:

Your Ex

The time has come, the walrus said, to stop stalking that person who used to be a part of your life but now only leaves a residue of uncomfy feelings when perusing through his/her photos, especially when said photos cause any of the following: early-onset tear detection, low self-esteem, remorse, regret (either for not being with that person currently, or having been with, ever), attraction reflux, acid reflux and/or dangerous nostalgia (dangerous meaning it could lead to tears or sex). No mercy: Bye!

“HER.”



End your habit now of checking the public Insta of the new person your ex is dating. Consider it a blessing that she wasn’t private and thank your lucky stars that you didn’t accidentally like a photo of her in a bikini from about 200 weeks ago, but no one’s luck holds out forever. Besides, comparing yourself to anyone is pointless. Snip.

The Ex



Another one to cross out: Not your ex, but The Ex of your current significant other, frequently referred to in the way one might a problematic pair of in-laws or Facebook before Justin Timberlake came along — with a “the.”

Reasons for mandatory deletion: see “HER” above, then factor in that if caught (and you definitely are snooping), you’ll have to have one of those convos with your companion that will definitely result in a fight. And for what? Someone no longer in either of your lives?

The Hate-Follow



Perhaps the most addictive one of all, getting rid of the hate-follow is like easing yourself out of a bad habit. Commit to only checking his or her account once a day. Then three times a week. Then once a week. Then agree to stop sending screen shots of the very obvious Photoshop jobs. Harboring bad feelings will only waste your time and make you feel guilty for perpetuating the stink.

However: if you secretly love this person (maybe an embarrassing celebrity), then why not embrace it? You’ll feel liberated.

Who?



You know that person who you followed just because you guys were in a friend’s group picture together one summer, whose photos confuse you when they appear on your screen because you forget who they are? No? Exactly. Unfollow. They’re only liking your photos because they’re confused about you, too.

Aw, Dave. He Was Nice.



Get rid of that kid who you were friends with in college but haven’t talked to in 6 years. No way he’ll notice, no way he’ll care.

Your least favorite meme account(s).



They all post the same stuff anyway — choose your favorite one and unclog your feed so that your real friends stop getting mad that you never comment on their photos. (I know! Because you never see it! Now you will.)

Anyone whose baby or animal annoys you.



It’s fine. This is your feed, not theirs.

The Deflater



To anyone who makes you feel like a lesser version of yourself, whether their bragging is intentional or your distaste is internal (you hate how you look or where you live or where you work or where you sit every single time you open their account) — say your goodbyes. When inspiration starts becoming deflation, it’s time to break out the social media scissors.

Don’t You Have a Job?



“Life’s a beach,” (sorry, here’s a barf bucket) but your Instagram feed doesn’t have to be Passport Patty’s travel blog. If her daily hotdog-or-knee pics annoy your desk-knee reality, and you’re not getting all the benefits of that Vitamin D, try an even better Vitamin D: the Delete button.

The “Foodie”



There’s no greater form of jealousy than the kind one experiences whilst scrolling past a food ‘gram on an empty stomach. In an ideal world, the Mad Teacher’s Universal Rule of Snacks would be applied online: if you can’t share with the class, don’t post it. In the meantime, if it makes you mad, unfollow.

The Gym Queen



If her dedication to various athletic studio mirror-selfies actually inspire you to get up at 6 a.m. and kick/stretch/kick, keep her in the queue. But if her abs are keeping you in bed for a 2-hour-long scrolling binge of self-loathing each morning while you sing sad Dashboard Confessional songs to your thighs, cut her loose.

The Compulsive Selfie-Poster



You’ve memorized her face by now. You know what she looks like from every angle. As far as you’re concerned, you could draw her with your eyes closed — and you can’t even really hold a pen properly. If yet another photo of her from the left angle in natural light will not alter your world in a positive way, feel free to unfollow. She’s probably engrained into your memory by now, anyway.

All of these people likely are. So send them a kiss, and send them on their way.

Illustrated by Clare Drummond. 

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Seven Reasons I Really Need A Pair Of Sock Booties

We beat the odds together. I’m glad we didn’t listen — look at what we would be missing.

Old school Shania Twain lyrics sum up how I’ll feel when we finally walk the streets of New York City together, fellow pedestrians’ heads turning at how perfect you look. From the first few times I saw you (electrically sexy in patent leather at Dior, sauntering around Dries Van Noten in striking pink brocade, a purple grape vision stealing the Givenchy show) my palms got sweaty, my head started spinning, and I just knew: We should be together.

Forget how I’ll never be able to wear skinny jeans or actual socks around you, or that — like all heady infatuations — there’s a good chance my obsession will pass. I’m positive that we’re going to be an unstoppable team, and here’s why:

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1. Despite the unsettlingly balmy weather we experienced in December, winter is coming! Your fitted, extra long silhouette will keep my bare ankles toasty warm when I’m wearing shorter pants.

2. Speaking of shorter pants, I’ve been considering a dalliance with cropped kick flares. Together we’ll make an unbelievable threesome.

3. My #ihavethisthingwithfloors posts will no longer require pretty floors for a good picture because of you. Bring on the public bathroom linoleum!

4. Say I’m aiming to accessorize a skirt and tights combo one evening: Loafers will seem too school-girlish, heels too obvious and flat Chelsea boots too boring. Before I give the night up to Seamless Web’s siren song, you’ll swoop in and make me excited about seeing and talking to other humans again.

5. It’s super annoying when I’m at the grocery store and the carton of egg whites I want is on the top shelf of the freezer, and I half-heartedly pretend to reach for it until an employee comes to help. That big chunky heel you bring to the table is more than extra height — it’s extra independence.

6. Even if the flame of my love for you fades, one day I might have a daughter that holds her own torch. And let’s just ignore how the metaphor got really creepy there by simply picturing the nice Hallmark moment I’ll have passing cherished old shoes down to a new generation.

7. Jeanne Damas in crushed velvet trousers. Shoe drop. Yea, shoe — these boots don’t need a mic.

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All Photographs via Vogue Runway; collages by Emily Zirimis.

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What a Weird Thing: I Gave Away My Favorite Jeans

It always goes like this: I feel like my closet is on the brink of disorganization, I see that my closet is on the brink of disorganization and then suddenly — as if I never saw it coming — I am like a drunk attempting to add a tip to the bottom of a restaurant bill: completely incoherent. Unaware of how to move a decimal, or what part of your person a sweater is supposed to cover.

And every time this happens, like clockwork, I Marie Kondo the shit out of my closet. If there is even a question mark about the validity of a garment’s place on the rack, it goes.

This last happened following the Spring 16 season of Paris Fashion Week. I returned home with the same (carry-on) suitcase I left with, bringing back exactly nothing new save for one knit dress, yet none of the contents of my tiny luggage fit back into my closet. So I freaked out — Who fed the armoire steroids? — and started cleaning.

Do I need more than one bright red sweater? Probably not. Discard. And what’s the deal with these three nearly identical white shirts? Dis, dis, discard. When’s the last time I wore that blue dress? Bye! And as for the towering pile of jeans right there to the left? By the end of this cleanse, you will be a tidy, small stack.

Now pause. Right here is where I make the most curious decision to jettison not one but two pairs of my most frequently worn jeans. Both are vintage Levi’s. Both are cropped. Both have weathered the elements, resulting in authentic rips, which I have cultivated with my own two knees. But both, too, have abandoned their responsibilities to cover my ass and now feature neither a pocket nor any fabric over their respective left cheeks. And so, we separate.

I thought exactly nothing of this detachment while it was in motion. I reasoned that beyond these pants there were many others and that removing myself from the comfort of their fade would force me to make The Hard Decisions about who I want to be, you know, from a denim perspective.

Surely there is more to me than a couple pairs of pre-owned jeans, right?

Wrong.

Wrong.

Much in the same way you don’t divorce your husband if you’re happy and in love, you do not throw away a pair of pants that your legs regularly frequent nor do you assume you can live without them.

Or at least that’s how I felt during the withdrawal phase. I was pretty sure that like Samantha Jones in that episode of Sex and the City where she is convinced she lost her orgasm, I had reached my fashion climax. Had tried too hard for too long and my load had been blown. My brain could no longer process outfits. Henceforth, it would be just myself and some cable knit sweaters, trudging along as though amphibian specialists based in Rhode Island.

What was it that impelled me to eliminate precisely what made getting dressed and feeling good easy? Who does that?

But I didn’t concede to defeat. I experimented with new stuff: new jeans (not vintage ones) that did not slice my vagina lips in half and skirts and trousers and dresses and such. It was uncomfortable, which sounds trivial, but is, I think, a metaphor for forcing yourself to step away from the stuff you know and dive into the cleavage of what you don’t. Because then, like that lighthouse beacon that people love calling “hope,” a cool lesson did emerge: it had never been about the jeans. Obviously. This was all about me and my reluctance to evacuate The Comfort Zone.

Those pants represented a safety blanket. Having them (just knowing they were there) eliminated my needing to think. They meant I didn’t have to try. Getting rid of them, then, was an exercise in stretching my style. And I was relieved to learn that I could do it — it’s important to know that you can fall asleep without blankie.

But now that they’re gone and the lesson is learned, I feel much better about the truth: I want my jeans back.

Collage by Emily Zirimis

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Do the PC Police Rule Award Show Season?

Is it just me or is it starting to feel like everyone is trying to become a meme-creator — the next Fat Jewish or Fuck Jerry? Granted, those guy have, in many ways, sped up and made easier the process of how we consume humor. No longer does it take any time beyond a mere scroll to consume a piece of content that contains the makings of a satisfying chuckle. And given the success of their virality, it makes perfect sense that the pop media would attempt to approximate their modus operandi, but I wonder if it is getting out of hand. Because the single most popular article-type that emerged from the Globes was not a round up of best dressed celebrities nor the multitude of think pieces we have grown conditioned to expect following mass culture events.

Rather, it was a round up of the best memes that surfaced during the event.

I could just imagine graphic design interns spread thin across the east and west coasts scraping the bottom of the proverbial yogurt bowl (and I do mean yogurt — this isn’t even cake batter scraping!), trying to come up with the funniest captions to accompany TV-stills to appease their social media director-bosses. The thing about comedy, though, is that you can’t try to be funny. And you can’t quite force it, either. So what are we left with beyond an eye roll, single-finger scroll and the inner resentment troll?

Following the Grammys last year, we asked whether normcore is a byproduct of memes. Given the fact that every celebrity who endeavored to show their personal style chops was torn apart by a side-by-side graphic comparing their outfit to [insert cartoon character, inanimate object, set of eggs here], it was starting to appear as though red carpets were being scrubbed clean of the exact brand of individualism that has the potential to define them. It’s safer to wear a black spaghetti strap gown that is so boring you fall asleep and thus can’t come up with your comedic comparisons, so that’s what people do.

But the memes shift. If it’s not the outfit, it’s the reaction you see on the faces of celebrities consuming the off-kilter humor of the event’s host. And last night, that meant PC-renegade, Ricky Gervais. I saw Denzel Washington emote and immediately thought to myself: what’s this going to look like in GIF-form tomorrow morning? Ditto that for Quentin Tarantino. Would Melissa McCarthy fall victim to the same plague following Gervais’ 15th joke about the pay gap? Otherwise there were just a bunch of frozen faces, trying impossibly hard to neither laugh nor smile, tear nor appear frustrated because, what would the Internet trolls (reality check: that’s all of us) think and then worse: do if they actually conveyed human, emotional responses?

So I asked, have the PC-police begun ruling award show season, and furthermore, should we be concerned?

Oh! And by the way, sorry for the think piece.

Feature Image via Boston Globe.

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The Rules of Style by David Bowie: A Tribute

David Bowie, an artist who transcended all that it meant to be of this earth — has passed away.

He died of cancer at age 69 on Sunday, January 10, 2016, two days after his birthday and the release of his final album, Blackstar.

“Look up here,” his voice opens in the haunting track titled “Lazarus.”  “I’m in heaven.”

Bowie was always something other-worldly. A rock star in appearance and a performer on stage, he and his alter ego, Ziggy Stardust, embraced androgyny and refused to be whatever it was or is that society considers normal.

You may have read that he wanted to be superhuman.

And he was superhuman in his talent, in his prolific output of creativity and in his ability to not only express himself through clothes but in his ability to express the many facets of his personality and mind and being — because for as much as we may have a uniform or an aesthetic or an aspiration, we are not one outfit or idea. We are many.

It’s one of the few reasons we’re paying tribute to him today by honoring his rules of style. As interpreted through the lens of a person who can only hope to one day view life as multidimensionally as David Bowie did, they are:

Never ask someone how an item of clothing makes you look. Ask yourself how it makes you feel.

Embrace color.

Especially the colors that terrify you.

Wear bold patterns and huge shapes — anything that allows you to take up space.

And maybe then you can relax into the quiet.

…Before you make a lot of noise.

Gold is good but it’s great when drawn in a circle, smack in the middle of your forehead.

Likewise, blue eyeshadow and magenta blush and a lightening bolt right down your face are not only acceptable, encouraged and delightful, but mandatory — at least on specific and important occasions.

Shoulder pads are probably due for a comeback.

On days that call for a sort of dialing back, a hat and a sharp brow are all the finishing touches one needs.

It’s also important to remember that a mask doesn’t mean you’re hiding.

And silk doesn’t mean you’re showing off.

Suits aren’t just for men.

Platforms aren’t just for women.

But glitter, glamour, sharp angles, shine, neck scarves, flares and patent leather, low-heed shoes are for people. All people. Anyone who craves the feeling of superfluidity, because fashion — I’m almost positive — is the only way to defy gravity while keeping yourself grounded in the beauty of life.

“I don’t know where I’m going from here,” David Bowie famously said, “But I promise it won’t be boring.”

The man on the moon always lived on Mars.

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Anti-Effortless: My Way to “Survive” Winter

It hit me 5 years ago when I started working in fashion that spray tans and liquid-lined cat eyes wouldn’t cut it. In this industry, no one around me so much as wore a swipe of mascara. It seemed that trying to look good wasn’t a good look. So I adapted — a sort of attempt to “fake it til I make it” where the faking part implied pretending that I was  comfortable publicly presently myself as a thin-lipped goldfish without eyelashes and at least three too many freckles.

It was weird at first, but not reaching for a security blanket of bronzer soon became empowering. Not covering up pimples felt bold. This, I thought to myself, must be precisely what the magazines called “effortless.” Each morning I rode the subway, thankful for the extra minutes of sleep that came with the elimination of maintenance, happy that no one cared if my cheeks were rouge or not. Because, guess what? They don’t.

On weekend nights, away from those high-profile editors and fashion-job-friends, I’d gussy-up. It felt like a secret to get a blow out, like a betrayal to line my lids. I once forgot to take my cherry polish off before Monday and spent the day with closed fists. Thank god I’d forgotten to take a shower that morning.

But that wasn’t me — that isn’t me. I like having my nails done and feel better with aggressively-volumed hair. Somewhere along the way, I think I’d confused fashion’s “effortless” with my own lack of effort. So I’m taking it back and putting in the work.

It’s not fake to want to look more awake, to add more a touch of pink to my lips and to spend time highlighting my face. Do I lose my fashion credibility if what I’m after is feeling my best? If feeling my best means looking put together?

Effortless should feel easy. Sunny. Bright. Not make you want to give up.

So this winter, I won’t. I’ll get dressed without the “ugh, do I have to?” I’ll do the lotion routine before bed. I’ll raise the ten minutes I won back years ago and offer up an hour and a half: that’s for the gym, a little zen, and something pretty.

They say that effort goes a long way. Good thing winter lasts forever.

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis; Sunglasses by Garrett Leight and Prada, earrings by Alessandra Rich, Annelise Michelson, Aurélie Bidermann, and Céline, barrette by Edie Parker, necklaces by CVC Stones.

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NY Closets: DJ Kitty Cash

The closet of Brooklyn-born deejay Kitty Cash is energizing. She starts Monday off the way personal trainers are always telling you to by opening up with a serious pow — no sad case of Sunday blues lingering in her look. In fact, she struts. Day two she’ll give you one reason alone to get excited for winter: that coat. By day three you’re reminded that this night cat has a day job, too. She works in the Communications and Marketing Department at G-Star Raw, and while this won’t be your corporate go-to, she sports a smart alternative to the jacket-and-pants hum drum that I, for one, want to try and mimic. If you can believe it, the wardrobe just keeps getting better from there.

Scroll down for a whole week’s worth of looks. Like all good deejays, the best part of her outfit is the song she paired it with.

Follow DJ Kitty Cash on Instagram and Twitter while simultaneously listening to her Soundcloud and YouTube channels. Visit her full blown site here.

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My Shopping Cart Is Full of Shit Right Now

Barneys and Net-a-Porter are both 75% off, Shoescribe is teasing me with their discounts, I think I saw a pair of Dries Van Noten boots on sale for like, $1, and The Outnet is just being The Outnet, so there is a ton of shit in my shopping carts around town right now. But see, the thing about filling those carts (whether or not you ultimately pull the trigger) is that if at first you’re much more critical and careful about what goes in there and what it means that you’re engaging in social proprietorship, then by, say, item #3 placed-in-cart, you’re just chucking in whatever so much as piques your interest.

So help me, would you? Help me either tear apart the carts to determine what deserves to be bought or keep playing this cool game where the entire Internet is a closet that belongs to me, but that, just like money in an IRA account, I can’t touch.

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The Best Thing You’ll See All Day

The award for the best human being in the whole wide world currently goes to Josh Saunders, a 21-year-old dance instructor from Australia who has become the literal face of Australia’s Got Talent. 

Kindly observe with your volume on:

I know.

Now, what I like to do is watch this clip on repeat with the volume off. I imagine all of the things someone could possible be telling him to elicit that kind of reaction, things like, “I HATE In-N-Out,” (*Gasp!*), or, “Oprah just sent me a text and said she doesn’t like you!” I imagine scenarios that could happen to me should I ever have expression block: *Has to do math,* for example. *When you think you’re about to meet Jay-Z but it’s actually David Schwimmer,* suggested Leandra.

Sometimes I just tell him about my day, to be honest. He’s very sympathetic if not a little dramatic.

So join me, won’t you? Sorry, I mean join us. Scroll down below for Josh Saunder the Great’s reactions to a variety of weird and lovely things, then screen shot your favorite face of his and tell him something just absolutely shocking in the comments section. The best one wins his enduring affection. Is there any better prize than that?

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Five Ways to Have Fun Without a Squad

#SquadGoals. I said it, read it and rolled my eyes at it on Instagram throughout 2015. I also allowed its Sierra-filtered expectations to permeate deep within the nether of my psyche: Am I having enough fun with my friends? Why don’t we ever make plans at well-lit matcha bars and photograph the evidence of said fun?

But sometimes, all I really want to do is wander Whole Foods alone while eating dried mulberries from the bulk section and leisurely decide between Fuji and Honeycrisp apples. Is that so lame?

No. That, in the spirit of gold fish resolutions and productive goals in general, is the answer I’m sticking with in the new year. I love being alone. Diane von Furstenberg once said, “The most important relationship in your life is the relationship you have with yourself. Because no matter what happens, you will always be with yourself.” I think she told Whitney Port that.

With her advice in mind, allow me to propose my own idea for 2016: Skip the squad and make a date with yourself. Do this at least once a week. Buy chocolates! Bring flowers! Then put on your special occasion pants and enjoy any of the following scenarios:

1. Go to the Movies Hans Solo

I’m starting my list with this simple task because it seems to scare the most people. But why should it scare you? It’s a lightless room with a giant distraction screen. Not only are the chances of having a conversation in this scenario zilch, but you’ll get screamed at if you try. The whole point is to score the best seat in the house (super easy when you’re alone), stare straight ahead and try not to crinkle the Pirate’s Booty bag you snuck in too loudly. If that’s not a one-woman job then I don’t know what is.

2. Read and Chill

Okay, obviously, yes, the literal act of reading is not a group activity. That said, it far too often becomes this filler thing that happens in-between the main events of your days —half an article on your iPhone while waiting in the grocery store line, five or six pages of a novel on the way to work — rather than a savored treat.

Instead, channel the elusive CCSG, or Cool Coffee Shop Girl. You know her. She’s the one you spot enviously during your 3 p.m. caffeine run, staked out in the corner armchair with a 16oz. something in one hand and a Kindle in the other. Stop wanting to be her and make it happen.

3. Shop in Peace

Want to spend an hour on the shoe floor trying on Prada loafers? (Are you sure those aren’t actually oxfords?) Go for it. Want to spritz every perfume sample until you smell like freshly-mown sugar musk? Why not? Without stressing over a second party getting bored, you can take your sweet ass time trying on every single color cross-body in the handbag department and leave without buying a thing. That is luxury.

4. Your Favorite Restaurant, Table for One

Making this reservation will be easy. Here’s the tough part: treat it like you would any other longstanding appointment with someone you care about. That means fully relishing every bite of your meal — totally fine if that means bringing along a good book, but don’t you dare check your email. Or order dessert to go. Eat it there! Sit back, relax and get in those 20 chews per bite you hear about but never knew existed.

5. Give Yourself a Polished High Five 

AKA, get manicure. And a pedicure. Hello, why not throw one of those 10 minutes shoulder massages in there, too? This is a prime opportunity to completely and utterly let your your brain melt into a mushy puddle of contentment without trying to be a good listener or coming up with witty retorts. Oh, and you’ll get to read all of this month’s magazines for free.

Now it’s your turn: what are your #sologoals?

Photograph by Toiletpaper Magazine for Kenzine Spring 2014. Narcissus by Javier Jaén. Collaged by Krista Anna Lewis.

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