Leandra Medine's Blog, page 667

Invincible in Magenta

My lids open at 6 a.m. and my eyes dart across the ceiling. My brain begins working furiously to solve complex mathematical equations while I simultaneously write a whimsical Haiku. Just kidding.

My morning thoughts are this:

Why did I send that text to my crush last night at exactly 7:02? This is torture. Why did I have to be so uncool about everything? Not only did I wait four hours to respond to his text, I sent him a string of texts in response as if not speaking to him for four hours was an unbearable task and therefore had to unleash my cooped up feelings in a cascade of desperation.

Besides, my read-receipt exposed me: Read at 3:02 p.m.

Great, just great. This is definitely not helping my 2015 resolution to be a femme fatale. More like femme desperado. I haven’t attempted to roll over and check my phone that’s glinting sardonically in the cold sunlight, but my bed-slug antennae have already alerted me that he hasn’t texted back.

I don’t need to be reminded twice.

Thinking about my impending chemistry exam is too much for my fragile heart at this early hour. Unrequited love compounded with heaps of organic chemistry? Now my paralyzing embarrassment is melting into self-pity. Let me wallow in it.  I am almost at the point of screaming at my green ceiling, “Why me?”

Ok, done. Now, my neighbors think I am a nut case. Check.

It’s almost 8 a.m. The day is about to sweep over this morning spectacle/disaster show I’ve just just put on for myself. I somehow need to slowly transition from bed-slug into human. The magenta Acne ankle boots at the foot of my bed are begging to be worn, which means I will need legs. And now that I think about it, I would like to strut around in them while listening to Florence and the Machine for a couple of minutes. Ok, done. I grew legs. I put shoes on. We’re making progress.

Florence Welch is now crooning to me out of my computer: “Madam, my dear, my darling, tell me what all the sighing’s about.” Thank you, Florence. I am not entirely sure. My mind is flittering back to that guy.

No, stop. I am invincible in these magenta boots.

Image Shot by Angelo Pennetta for T Magazine

Wardrobe Malfunctions IRL

The year was 2004 and two football teams, let’s call them the Patriots and Panthers, were facing off in the Super Bowl.

After a first half full of Clydesdale commercials, buffalo wings, and pretending you understood what a “first down” was, Nelly, P. Diddy, Kid Rock, Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake took the stage to give us one of the most talked about moments on live TV. As J-Tim sang, “I’ll have you naked by the end of this song”, Ms. Jackson’s bare breast was unleashed from its leather prison and thus, the “wardrobe malfunction” was born.

I sympathize with Jackson — I, too, have been there with my metaphoric (and some times literal) boob out there for all to see.

But in real life, us plebeians have no PR team to explain our embarrassments and I don’t recall Emily Post having ever written about the proper etiquette on handling nip-slips or farting at a crowded house party.

A smattering of my top life malfunctions are as follows:

A white dress

I am at my 8th grade graduation and stand up to toast my parents at the barbecue following the ceremony.  Unbeknownst to me, I had just gotten my period and everyone could see. My face turned brighter red than the back of my dress.

Triangle string bikini

Sophomore year of high school, I am walking back from the beach with some friends.  As I put on my sweet LL Bean backpack, one of the thin swaths of fabric betrays me, exposing my boob the entire walk home.  With one headlight out, it was quite the show for that group of 15-year-old boys.

Study abroad program

In Rome, Italy, there is little else to do than eat and drink (if you forget about all those monuments and history). I took the phrase “when in Rome” to heart and consumed so much pasta, bread, pizza, wine and cheese that I gain a full 25 pounds. My thighs tore through every single pair of pants I brought with me and only did so in public.

College

My first serious “adult” relationship, my boyfriend spends the weekend at my parents house. In my childhood bed, as the dawn is breaking, so is my wind. I fart so loudly in my sleep that I wake us both up. Six months later he dumps me via email. I blame the rip.

First “real” job

I head out to lunch with my all-male coworkers. When we get to the lobby, my sensible yet fashionable work shoes give out.  My broken heel fell off a good yard behind me, causing me to stumble and bruise my ego substantially. I left my colleagues laughing as I hobbled to a cab to take me to my closet.

Much like Janet Jackson, these unfortunate events left me down, not out. But this year, perhaps I can use the air Tom Brady takes out of his footballs to inflate my own confidence. This Super Bowl Sunday, take some time to reflect on your past wardrobe and life malfunctions and hope that Katy Perry’s half time show goes off without a nip-glitch. Until then, let’s hear yours in the comments below.

Ask Us Anything, Volume III

Here we talk and talk and talk and talk from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. (and sometimes beyond) while you sit and read — or maybe don’t — and offer your own opinions on the topics we present. But maybe you’re no more interested in the mangled words than you are in the accompanying photos, or the impetus behind a comma’s strange placement within a sentence. Maybe you’re wondering why we’re so excited about kohlrabi, or what it means — I mean really means — to be inti-macy’s. So here’s your annual chance to seize the ball, pull it into your court and ask us anything.

Genetic mutations on the mind? We may have answers.

How long it takes for an oyster to die? Amelia practically lives in one of those shells.

Don’t be shy. Text it if you need to.

Original Image via I-D Magazine

MR Round Table: Boys, Boys, Boys

Leandra Medine: Amelia brought to my attention an article from Daily Mail UK, which I guess makes this a questionable topic to round table, about this man named Blake Lavak, who’s 53 years old and has published a book on what women are doing wrong when it comes to reeling in “Mr. Right.” The way that he describes the process of finding a man seems systematic and soul crushing, and it goes against everything we’re conditioned to believe about locating your soulmate and allowing emotions and instinct to get you there — but again, that’s what we’re conditioned to believe. It might be interesting to talk about whether or not there is some merit in taking this guy’s advice at face value.

Amelia Diamond: My friend sent this article to me jokingly and said, “All you have to do is suck dick!” She was making fun of his philosophy — I like how he keeps on referring to men as “Big Tuna.” I think he’s ridiculous and the concept is ridiculous. I guess what I find interesting is that we’re re-approaching this idea that there is a system to fall in love. There was that recent NY Times article about the 36 questions, backed by science, that lead to love — I’m interested in our fascination with having a set of steps for love.

Krista Lewis: I feel differently about the NY Times story because it felt more like questions designed to help you get to know someone better, whereas this just feels like a guide to tell women how to behave romantically and what they should do with their bodies.

Charlotte Fassler: He’s also 53 years old and he’s recently single after a 15 year marriage, so his advice can only be so applicable to everyone. I think one of the things that resonated with me was when he said, “I think you should definitely sleep with the guy on the first date. It shows that you’re interested.”

He doesn’t take into consideration that in this hook up culture, people do that regardless. If a girl sleeps with a guy on the first date, it’s totally her choice and it’s what she wants. But I think there is this supposition that doing so can set a precedent for a relationship to be more sexual-based. Especially with young guys who think they don’t have to work for anything.

LM: Don’t you sort of feel like a story about bagging a man makes the man seem much more docile than the woman, who has to be this proactive hunter — doesn’t that totally perpetuate this theory that men don’t have to do anything?

CM: I don’t think his concept would hold up with young people.

AD: If what he says has any merit, he’s certainly not portraying it in a way that’s accessible or welcomed by women. The way he’s portraying his concept compared to the way the old guard portrays it, it’s almost as if women can’t win. If our grandmothers’ generation followed the passive female approach, where you sort of wait for the guy to call, pursue you…

LM: I’m the third generation of women who propose to men.

AD: I love that. My family is old school. So there’s the version where the woman is passive and the guy does all of the work, and you don’t have sex with him and you make him wait and work for everything. The spin on that is that it gives the woman the power right? Like, you get to sit home and do nothing and the guy has to do all of the work. But that doesn’t seem like it  totally works; it kind of gives women no power. And here is this guy saying — on the flip side — “women, take the reins, go after the man, sleep with him on the first date.” And yet somehow, even though it’s the opposite scenario, it seems once again like there is a lack of female power.

LM: Well, that’s because this is a classic case of being spoken at instead of to. What single girl in New York with a good job is going to listen to a 53-year-old man who is telling her that she can “win” the man of her dreams in 60 days? It’s difficult for me to relate; the whole concept of dating in 2015 is beyond me because I’ve been married for three years, but this idea that women have been doing it wrong makes the concept of romance and falling in love seem so sterile that marriage almost starts to feel like a literal job.

You don’t need to be in a relationship to survive. Yes, they’re wonderful — like truffles on pasta — but the pasta is still there if you decide not to season it.

CF: Relationships are also work. It’s not like you get your guy and it’s GREAT!

Esther Levy: Obviously this guy is trying to manipulate every girl who feels lonely because men like this exist. It reminds me of that book, The Pick Up Artist, where this guy basically claimed he had the formula needed for guys to pick up girls, which is essentially to give them backhanded compliments, or “negs,” I think they were called.

KL: When Blake talks about his sister, there’s the phrase, “What’s wrong with me that I can’t land a man?” Which is based on the assumption that there’s something wrong with a single woman.

CF: He tries to humanize himself by bringing in his sister.

EL: Okay, not to keep on bringing up The Bachelor, but that’s why this show has run for 19 consecutive seasons — in many ways, nothing has changed. A lot of these women are really beautiful and intelligent and they have good jobs —

AD: Do they?

EL: There’s a newscaster this season! Jillian — she just got voted off. But if you go back to season 1 and compare it to season 19, there is literally no difference. It’s the same sob story of, What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I find love? It does make finding love seem like a chore or task that you need to win at.

LM: Which is probably why it’s become so difficult, right? The same way that as a writer, when you’re looking for an arc or an angle you can never find it because something beyond you is contingent upon it coming to fruition.

AD: I agree. I have female and male friends that have been like, “Why can’t I find a girlfriend or boyfriend?” The fact that this book just came out and has press on it sort of ties into the fact that we’re still searching for this love potion. It’s like the one uncrackable thing. This is the one unsolvable. We just want someone to tell us how to do it. It’s why we text our friends, “What do I say?” Does your friend ever know what to say? No.

CF: They’re just going to rely their own experiences and relate them to yours.

AD: Totally. Pull up your own bullshit, your own biases and experience and craft a weird text that honestly, holds no weight. I don’t think that one text has ever swayed a relationship in a new direction.

KL: Unless it’s a bad dick pic. This is a formula like that just ignores that people have different personality types. People are introverts and extroverts and it’s great to have the confidence to go up and talk to guys, but for some people it’s just easier if the guy pursues them. I think so much of any relationship depends on the person grasping at the formula. It’s like, “Oh if I buy this thing, I’ll be really cool.”

AD: Does that mean that anyone who buys into this book does it because it promises that they’ll meet their match in 60 days? Is there ever advice for that woman or it just always a crapshoot?

LM: How frequently are men dealing with these questions? Are they?

AD: Well, The Game is a book about guys learning how to pick up girls. I don’t think all men — just like I don’t think all women — are trying to find love.

LM: Esther, what was the courting like between you and your husband?

EL: It was surprisingly traditional. It was also before Tinder, but even before those dating apps, guys would primarily speak to girls via text. We had mutual friends that had told him about me, and he just approached me at a wedding and introduced himself. It was refreshing and I liked that. He didn’t play the whole texting game. If he wanted to hang out he would call me and we’d hang out and we weren’t texting that entire day either.

I think the problem with these formulas is that they’re not specific to girls who are dating or single. As a married woman, I wonder if maybe I’m not doing everything “right.” Maybe there are a whole other set of rules I should be following or maybe there’s something I don’t know despite having met my partner. I think that’s a problem that isn’t specific to single people, I think it’s a wider issue.

LM: If you ask Abie what initially attracted him to me, he’ll say it’s my assertiveness. I booked our first date. We were chatting on AOL and I was like, “When do you want to hang out, we’ve been chatting all week.” And after our first date I was like, “So when do you want to see me again?” Again though, it was a lot of, when do you want to see me, not when can I see you. It’s me being assertive but in a way that still left the ball in his court.

KL: And it’s just a way of cutting the bullshit. I want to see you again but I’m going to put it on you.

EL: It’s kind of like what we were saying last week about the fluff surrounding an e-mail. Just cut to the chase.

CF: I don’t think Lavak is saying “cut the bullshit.” I think he’s saying, “Ladies, bow down. If you want a guy to fall in love with you, you pay for him, suck his dick, obsess over him and make him feel…”

LM: This is just the most dramatic way to rebound right? He’s coming off a 15 year marriage.

What frustrates me about this concept of finding a guy in 60 days, is that it goes against everything women are bred to believe — and I don’t mean inherently inclined to believe — which is that you grow up, you realize what you like about yourself and realize what you want in a partner and then as a result of that, find someone or let that person find you and it just happens.

AD: But I think there’s always been that question of, “Tell me how to do it.”

LM: Well then I guess my next point is that commercialism ruins all forms of art across the board. This is happening in fashion because couture is not a flight of fancy anymore, it’s a viable business that moves product, and that was the last pure bureau of the industry. There’s an argument that Jeff Koons has sort of ruined fine art, right?

KL: I feel like the Internet, and people being so glued to their phones that they’re not open to making conversation, has made it more desperate or more pressing that you find someone because you’re not just going to meet someone in the street.

AD: I think it takes the pressure off. If there’s anything that dating apps have taught me, it’s that there are literally a billion hot guys in this city.

CF: If you’re depressed over a guy IRL, you can go on Tinder and find that there are 300 guys you could conceivably go on a date with. You don’t want to, but you like knowing that.

LM: I have an idea, why don’t we talk about our notions of romance. What is the ideal romance like for you?

AD: There’s one where it’s easy and just kind of instantly happens. It’s like that movie thing where you just meet a person, can’t stop talking and boom, it’s on. The second one is where there is this very obvious tension — totally opposing view points between two people where you almost hate this person, can’t stand them or be in the same room as them and then suddenly, boom, it’s on. But never in my life has anything good ever come out of games. I refuse to play the waiting game, because nothing good comes of it.

In the first few years here there was so much pressure. My grandparents would ask me, “You’re living in New York now, are you dating or seeing anyone?” It gets hard to reply, “I’m hooking up with this kid…”

LM: Well, especially when it’s your grandparents. But you specifically, as strong a woman as you are, it’s consistently fascinating to me how old school you are about your dating regimen.

AD: I am and I always will be. I am old school. You wanna see me? Tell me. Take me out, call me. Or at least in the beginning. I think relationships should 100% be a mutual partnership. But I think there is something to romance and being wooed and having someone walk you to your door.

LM: I guess the first leg of my relationship with Abie was that way. We met when I was 17 and he called me the night before my SATs to wish me good luck even though he was a senior in college. He acknowledged the fact that I was in high school, which to me was impressive for a 21-year-old guy. But when we got back together, all of the fireworks and romance that I adored about the first leg of the relationship were completely absent. And I struggled with that. But it occurred to me in the 5th or 6th month of the relationship that passion dies, right? That the conversation on finding The One is so dense because the things that you look for in a partner often don’t turn out to be the things you need for a marriage to work.

AD: I think that’s why when you hear my complaints about guys, which can be perceived as “old school,” it’s because I am looking for a gentleman. I think it comes down to how my dad was and how he was raised. It was a true family of gentlemenz with a Z, and it’s not a chauvinistic or sexist thing, but I do believe that a man should hold open doors and such. I think the guy should pay for the first dinner and it doesn’t have to represent their power over you or them trying to buy your love or whatever. It’s just this old school vibe.

I always remember my dad would say that it’s not about the money. When he was 23 and living here, he was so broke. He had enough money to pay for rent — he always had a “gig.” But when he liked a girl, he wanted to show her that he liked her. So even if he didn’t have money for a nice restaurant or whatever he’d find some cool, weird Chinese place or his favorite hot dog stand on the corner.

EL: Is your dad Ryan Gosling in The Notebook?

AD: Yes, basically. Whereas now, I’ve spoken to guys who have said that they’re scared to open a door for a woman because they’ve been yelled at before. There’s even a meme that says, “I’m the kind of feminist who still wants you to pay for my dinner.”

EL: My idea of romance is someone who will watch Broad City with me.

CF: I think my idea of romance is something where you don’t have to question whether the other person likes you. I think we’re constantly analyzing moods and questioning whether or not the objects of our interest want to be with us. At the end of the day, you want to be with someone who also wants to be with you. Having to work too hard to get someone to respond to your texts or make a plan with you, or you feeling like you have to badger someone to hang out with you, that’s never going to amount to a relationship. It has to be a two-sided pursuance.

People tend to obsess, or just not see the bigger picture. And it’s hard, because you completely get tunnel vision when you’re into someone. But yeah, I guess my idea of romance is a balanced, two-sided relationship.

KL: Which I believe too. But I’ve never been in a relationship to draw experience from. Any conjecture is drawn from one-month-long hook ups. I came off this year having a crush on this one guy in my friend group. He’s really quiet — speaking of being attracted to men who remind you of your father, my dad’s really quiet — and plays music and is cute. After trying to “pursue” him or send a text saying, “Hey, I really enjoyed talking with you at this party,” I could never tell if his responses were friendly or into me. But that felt so much more satisfying than being pursued by a guy. I feel like if a guy is ogling me or actively trying to be suave or cool, that makes me feel so uncomfortable. It feels predatory.

AD: You would rather it be a subtle push and pull than have a man straight up pursue you?

KL: Yeah. It feels more of a two-sided thing that way. It is a very subtle balance though.

CF: That might be why you don’t like Tinder. Because you’re judging people based on their hotness and they’re pursuing you for the most part. And you’re kind of like, On what merit are they pursuing me?

LM: You know what my mom used to tell me? Wait — never mind. I just realized it wasn’t my mom, it was the book Why Men Love Bitches and I just had that realization. My mom has co-opted this theory and sold it to me as her own! This just occurred to me! Her theory is the entire premise for a NY Times best seller!

AD: What was it?

LM: Her point was essentially that the smart girls always end up with the best guys because they’re a little mean. Because in order to be a smart girl you have to be a little bit aggressive. I don’t know about that though.

MR Writer’s Prompt: Social Media Woe is My Parent

I went to visit my parents the Friday after New Years Eve and my mother wouldn’t talk to me. I asked why I’d become the victim of a particularly scathing installment of the silent treatment and she responded with great frustration that she thought she’d raised me better. That I’d clearly forgone the value system she was sure she’d put in place.

Confounded and slightly miffed by her crypticness, I pressed — very sincerely unaware of what I had done — until she finally said the thing that officiates a young parent’s foray into what I’m calling grandfathered adulthood.

“You didn’t call me on New Year’s Day.”

Mind you, she’d spent the previous 25 years reiterating a Judaic truth — that “the Gregorian New Year is not our New Year and therefore does not need to be treated as such,” but also that I’d texted both her and my father at 12:25 AM on January 1st. Didn’t that protect me from the hyper-sensitivity with which most elderly relatives behave, though lucky me, like my 51-year-old-mother does too?

Apparently not — according to the womb carrier, “text messaging does not count as communication.”

Let that sink in for a moment.

That would mean that 50% of the romantic relationships currently burgeoning in America “do not count.” That Uber drivers cannot charge me $10 for canceling their cars, that I don’t have to meet said mother at 5:30PM today at the Le Pain Quotidien on 83rd and York because, MOM, that plan was one made via keyboard. And you initiated it!

But I digress.

This week, The #MRWritersClub wants you to detail, in the usual 500-or-less words, the single most disheartening condition of your parents’ relationship with social media vis-à-vis you. Treat this like a boxing session, let it all out, yell if you have to and pray to the Internet gods that be, that they don’t (or, I don’t know, do!) disown you when all is said and typed. Deadline for submission is next Thursday, February 5th at 12PM.

Vive le text message.

Image via Style.com

Internet Defenders: Let’s Love Justin Bieber Again

Am I allowed to say this? Poor Justin Bieber.

Bieber-sympathy is an unpopular opinion to take. Seth Rogan recently announced his distaste for the young musician, and he’s type of guy about whom people say things like, “Man, if Seth thinks you suck, you must be a real asshole.”

Justin Bieber has been acting like an asshole, though. Didn’t he pee in a bucket onstage or something?

But I don’t care. People do stupid things. Alice Cooper once allegedly bit the head off a chicken.

A clip from the Ellen Show made Internet rounds today where Bieber did one of those fake-out things celebrities love so much — actually, attention famous people everywhere: the whole “I’m pretending we pre-filmed this, but I’m secretly about to run on stage any moment” was made popular by high school rallies nationwide, and the gimmick was cool maybe…twice. Just be real with us and appear on stage the first time around. You guys watched too much magic growing up.

Anyway, Justin Bieber appears on stage. And he shows up with this really nice new hairstyle that’s a perfect, flow-appropriate blend of windswept, but not trying too hard, and not too much product either. Looks like he just raked his fingers through his hair before saying something positive, like, “Let’s do this!”

You can just tell he’s excited to be there. Justin Bieber trots as quickly as he can with his teeny legs and striped tunic, more eager to give Ellen her flowers and underwear than a child who has made his parents breakfast in bed.

After a bit of a shout out to Calvin Klein underwear, he drops the knowing grins and gets kind of a real for a minute. He acknowledges that he’s “done some things that may not have been the greatest.” Haven’t we all? Our lives just aren’t filmed by TMZ. And he’s participating in the Comedy Central roast — probably because his manager told him it was a good PR move — but also because he wants to be able to laugh at himself.

Nothing’s more endearing than that.

Except his actual apology with these cool side effects:

Our society venerates the Bad Boy. Look at James Dean or Danny Zuko or Johnny Depp. But for some reason Justin Bieber was never allowed into this spotlight. He went from “Baby” singing baby to teenager too quickly, and we didn’t like it. I think it’s because to earn that title, you have to first “man up.”

That’s what Justin did today on the pristine white couch of Ellen’s stage. He in his tiny pants with his little legs and his lovely face. He was earnest, and real. It made me feel like I know him. Like he was the little shit next door who went from purposely blocking your driveway, to picking you up a set of red reflectors because he happened to be at Home Depot and think of you.

He’s a bad boy reformed. 

Watch him end up with Taylor Swift.

Controversies in Paris

I was raised in the kind of hippie-dippie household that taught me I could find art in anything. It was a lesson I internalized early. Skyscrapers and circuses awed me. A quality snowstorm took my breath away. I thought Britney Spears was a creative genius. (Which I stand by.) And I believed my mom when she told me that FAO Schwarz was a toy museum where nothing was for sale. As far as I was concerned, those plush animals were masterpieces.

By the time I fell for fashion, it took me all of ten seconds to see the divinity in it — the way form and function could cooperate to produce something so spectacular.

And yet the debate about how exactly we should classify fashion rages on. Is couture art? Is ready-to-wear too commercial to be? We might all agree that Alexander McQueen was an artist, but is Sarah Burton? Is Isabel Marant? Is Karl Lagerfeld? How we answer these questions matters. Our conclusions about them are more consequential than ever.

A.P.C. designer Jean Touitou illustrated the various sections of his menswear presentation in Paris with handwritten signs. As a quartet of models posed in luscious camel coats and boots from the brand’s collaboration with Timberland, Touitou held up a placard that read, “Last Ni##@$ IN PARIS.”

Touitou told Style.com that the controversial theme was born out of joint inspirations: “[I]t’s the sweet spot when the hood—the ‘hood—meets Bertolucci’s movie Last Tango in Paris. So that’s ‘N****s in Paris’ and Last N****s in Paris.”

After the show, Touitou defended his decision to “play with strong signifiers.” “I am friends with Kanye [West],” he said, “and he and I presented a joint collection at the same place, one year ago, and…this thing is only [an] homage to our friendship.” In fact, Touitou continued, Kanye himself had offered support for the collection.

And yet the backlash against it has been swift and loud. Timberland announced that it would cut ties with the brand, stating that Touitou’s “language and approach is in complete contrast with our values.” And the Internet is aflutter with assertions that Touitou has at last gone too far. I understand the outrage. And I feel it, too.

The stunt seems to be just that — not a statement or a challenge, but rather an ugly and uninformed and ignorant message. I have no respect for it. But the confrontation forces me to consider how much creative license we should give designers. If we believe — as so many of us do here — that fashion is art, do we have to allow for (and even embrace) provocative forms of expression? Or are we right to preserve some degree of cultural taboo? Should we grant full freedom of expression in matters of style? Or should we hold the industry to our moral and societal standards? What makes something art?

To me, this isn’t it. But why?

Feature image via A.P.C, Slideshow images via Style.com

Five Things You Can No Longer Avoid This Winter

Today I walked to work.

“WELL BIG WHOOP, MAZEL TASSELS, CELEBRATION NATION AND ACORN CITY, AMELIA,” you are probably shouting in a sarcastic tone at your computer, causing those around you to crane their necks and consider whether or not you’re having an episode. Walking to work does not deserve accolades. Nor does taking the subway. These are the two most popular modes of transportation besides Heelys–

–but I am lazy and have developed a terrible, finance-depleting habit of cabs. Blame the weather.

Upon my arrival I made a big old scene about the walk where I mostly tried to catch my breath and not die, simultaneously exalting the benefits of using one’s legs as opposed to tires.

“It’s crazy how much longer you can withstand the cold when you’re wear a hat and gloves, right?” said Esther.

But then I was like, “What?”

Because no. I walked to work while freezing the whole time. I figured that was just how it was done.

Well Esther, bless (t)her, decided to help me get suited up. Here’s what she said I need:

1. A cheap beanie. (She thinks I’ll loose it.)

2. Rain boots for the girl who hates rain boots.

3. An “investment” scarf.

4. Tech gloves (of which I used to be a proponent, but then abandoned at the start of this winter after failing to locate the left hand of my only remaining pair).

5. A snood — yes, a snood.

So, because I’m committed to this newfangled walking thing and I can’t lose yet another finger to frostbite, I’m taking her advise and no longer ignoring the five things we likely all need this winter. Or at least tomorrow, when it’s rumored to be a tidy 1 degree.

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Unless you live in Australia. In which case:  

Are You a Remote Controller?

Most people will lie when asked about the most difficult parts of romantic cohabitation.

One side will tell you that their partner’s Fantasy Football fetish is tearing them apart. The other will retort that they wouldn’t have to escape into a pipe dream of fake statistics if someone didn’t spend so much time nagging about toenail clippings on the bathroom floor. One would prefer not to clip his nails, but does so out of consideration; the other is tired of waking up with scratch marks on her calves.

Maybe she should sleep with pants on? No. They’d never have sex–

But none of that matters. The biggest challenge you will face upon sharing one roof is the fight over the remote control.

The fateful clicker; the sleek, buttoned rectangle of possibility and infinite portals of pixelation. It is the physical manifestation of your cultural priorities. It delivers laughter, fear, and Cupcake Wars while insisting that you take it easy. Both parties want it, but like the conch shell in Lord of the Flies, only one person can control it at a time.

Netflix is a blessing in this fight. With one click, it delivers entire series. A couple just needs to agree upon the show and then you’re set for at least ten episodes. Together, my husband and I have consumed Breaking Bad, House of Cards and The Walking Dead. But in the past month, we’ve reached the end of the Netflix road and have therefore hit the worst speed bump in our young marriage — what now do we watch? Nothing makes a couple evaluate their differences quite like conflicting tastes in television.

Recently, when asked what “romance” means to me, I exclaimed, “Someone who will watch Broad City with me. Remote relinquished, no questions asked.”

But since that’s not my reality, I hand the mic — er, remote — over to you. Are you a passive watcher or a remote hoarder? And also, thoughts on Sons of Anarchy? There are six seasons on Netflix.

Image shot by Roe Ethridge for W Magazine

An Ode to Cool Dads

On a bleary-eyed morning last summer I walked into my parents’ kitchen to find my dad sending chia seeds, kale, coconut water, maca, celery, a frozen banana, and a purple carrot into the Vitamix. His costume for this ritual was a pair of perfectly frayed and faded denim cutoffs and black New Balance running shoes which, in men’s sizes, are an alarmingly clunky sight to behold.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt but had a blue and white dishtowel flung over his shoulder. He poured the green concoction into two glasses, handed one to my mom, and glided off into his studio. “Twins!” my mom said as I walked towards her. And she was right. I too was wearing knee-length denim cutoffs and bulky black running shoes (worn, temporarily and weirdly, with a bathing suit top). I was flattered, somewhat to my surprise, by her exclamation. My dad had looked so cool this morning.

His closet, like the closets of many cool dads, is comprised of meticulously hung, folded, and stacked jeans, t-shirts, flannels and button-downs. From a distance, everything appears to be a shade of blue, but upon closer inspection dashes of black, white and gray will appear. There are dozens and dozens of the everything.

To the untrained eye, all like-objects appear to be identical to one another. There are multiple pairs of brown leather slip ons, clog-like shoes and running sneakers. My dad does not run. There are denim baseball hats, a few spun cashmere scarves and fleece vests. Fabrics are unfailingly sturdy.

Dads have a knack for blurring the line between high and low — tee shirts by Gap and Theory will hang alongside each other and, on the dad, will be indistinguishable. Items are only added to the collection if they are soft to the touch and come in a “good” shade of their color.

My dad wears jeans to his appointments (with clients, the dentist, the accountant, etc.); he wears them to work, to dinner parties, to holiday parties, to the movies, to hang out in the kitchen. A pair of khakis would look alien on him.

He looks like Larry David and eats at least one half of a full-sized salted dark chocolate bar every day. He drinks decaf every morning. He has an (excellent and sparsely followed) Instagram account and frequently responds to my text messages with nothing more than the thumbs up emoji.

The dad look is not something that can easily be mimicked. To appear as cool as these dads, one must be of their kind. Their look is streamlined because they’ve lived — and therefore have refined their tastes. They teach us the importance of having the confidence to know what you like and feel best in and, if you want, to unapologetically wear a version of it every day.

We can wear fleece when it’s snowing without a hint of irony. We can unlearn terms like “basic” and “normcore,” because to call such a look “normcore” is to minimize, misunderstand, and insult what’s indigenous to dads. The look isn’t about post-fashion, irony, or a lack of care — it’s about comfort, subtlety and reliability. Really, truly, and like my dad, I believe there is nothing better than the perfect t-shirt and a great pair of jeans.

As we grow up and in turn refine our daily practices, it’s difficult to think of a — for lack of a better word — cooler thing to strive for than dressing (and acting) more like the cool dads of the world. We are told that we become our parents as we get older. Finally, we have something to look forward to.

Image via Le 21ème