Leandra Medine's Blog, page 685

An Etiquette Lesson in Refusing to Apologize

It is appropriate to apologize if you push someone in front of a car. You should say sorry if you splash your hand around quickly inside of someone’s soup bowl like an epileptic fish, splattering them with chicken broth and alphabet noodles. Varying tones of regret can be administered if you are to un-pot a neighbor’s houseplant, stick your gum inside a stranger’s ear, call a mustached person a “land walrus” or for burping in public.

But there are certain instances when it’s just not your fault, and to apologize is a waste of everyone’s day. Let me explain.

I, Uh, Er, Hey!

First and foremost, you do not need to say “sorry” for being awkward. If you are a strange smiler, don’t apologize. (Never do it again, but move on.) Likewise, the sidewalk shuffle is universally uncomfortable: are you going left? Are you going right? Are we playing lacrosse?

Just embrace it.

No one knows if he or she is supposed to go in for the hug, the handshake, or the double kiss, but you just went rogue and attempted a high-five. That’s okay. You wouldn’t say sorry for sneezing, would you? No — it’s someone else’s responsibility to bless that mess right back into your soul, so never feel guilty for stuttering a “hello.” You’re human, and humans are awkward. Unless you’re an alien, in which case, beep boop.

The Hunger Games

The pressing strike of a clock’s hand at noon brings out more anxiety among coworkers than sober karaoke. “What should we order?” they shout across cubicles. “Burritos again, or should we do kale?” It’s 3 PM by the time everyone agrees because we’ve become a nation of Seamless-communists: all for one and one for all.

But lunch is a democracy — you are your own person — and you should never have to apologize for a solo mission. At lunch time, it’s crucial to stand your ground. So what if you didn’t tell Nancy you were ordering an hour ago? She’s your cube-mate, not your conjoined twin with an anatomically codependent stomach. Proper etiquette says you don’t have to apologize; she may try to staple your thumb “accidentally,” but she’ll get over it and your finger will survive.

Spoiled Milk

Spoiler alerts do not ruin movies. People who are untimely with their cinematic queue ruin movies. In what is perhaps the worst neurosis to come out of the 21st century, Fear of Spoilers plagues a generation that has become reliant on technology’s ability to cater films and television to our independent schedules.

A limit should be put on the information embargo regarding all new episodes and releases (this includes web series, podcasts, Amazon and Netflix originals): on-time watchers will be required to keep their mouths shut regarding plot lines and important deaths for exactly one week post-airing. After that, announcing who hooked up with whom is 100% unapologetic fair game.

More importantly, those wishing to reference a crucial scene from a show or movie that’s at least one year old should in no way be held accountable when in the presence of someone who has “just discovered Friday Night Lights.” That show is amazing, but old as fuck. It’s no one’s fault but the tardy watcher’s that he or she hasn’t seen it yet, so if you let something “slip,” do not, under any circumstances, feel like you must say sorry. If, however, you go on to shove your pointer finger up the new enthusiast’s left nostril to teach him or her a lesson, you’re on your own.

Please, thank you, and you’re welcome.

Image Shot by Mark Brothwick via Style Rookie

Remember that Style.com Video Series?

There are three more videos, which have been published in the last two weeks, for your viewing pleasure or conversely dismay depending on whether you like clogs, thick sweaters and dresses that really should be viewed as long form blouses you haven’t met yet. The three installments tackle how to wear oversized sweaters and knee high boots and the aforementioned blouses. They were filmed over the summer and as a result might require brief, relatively benign addendums but the nuclei remain the same: be weird. And wear what you want.

Now that it’s colder, you might want to consider wearing socks inside your clogs. Or forgoing the backless shoes all together in the name of either sneakers, loafers (glitter socks mandatory) or boots that are short enough to be covered by the bottoms of your pants but long enough to conceal any skin that might try to wander out of the temporary marriage of shoe and pant. I like this one pair by Givenchy, which you can find on Yoox for $362.

I’m sticking to my guns pretty definitively on this one and probably adding a black overcoat.

Finally, I’m opting out of mid-heels transplanted directly from the set of Dancing with The Stars and instead suggesting either mid-heel boots, which by rules similar to those of the first pair are tall enough in length to cover whatever skin might be primed to reveal itself between the bottom of your jeans and the top of your foot.

Do you feel like you learned something? Or should I punch myself now?

The Three Day Mirror Challenge

Nothing makes me feel so white as a hip hop dance cardio class.

The only way I could get through the last one I attended was by relentlessly ignoring the inescapably large wall mirror haunting me from directly across the room. When it was just my movements held up against the instructor’s, I felt as rhythmic a participant in the class as Beyonce’s choreographer could have been. But when the mirror got in the way of our rapport and I caught a glimpse at my left foot tapping toe/heel/toe/heel, it was obvious that I looked much more like a dying pigeon than I did an associate to pop royalty.

That seeing myself threw me off so comprehensively got me thinking. If self-awareness, catalyzed by a mirror can paralyze my ability to move freely in the safety of an environment where I’m confident there is no judgement other than that which is self-inflicted, what else does my reflection impair? What would happen if I continued to eschew my reflection? What if I decided I wouldn’t look at a mirror for 72 hours? Would I feel better? Worse? Would it change my purview? Am I slave to the mirror?

On Friday of last week, I sought out to find out. For three days, I would avoid my reflection following a set of ground rules:

1. No makeup (this would make getting ready in the morning easier)

2. No sartorial shortcuts (if I wouldn’t wear reliably black skinny jeans with a dark sweater regularly, this experiment is no place to consider paring down)

3. Must wash face and brush teeth in kitchen sink (why tempt the devil or the artist formerly known as a bathroom mirror?)

4. Avoid reflective surfaces, e.g. store and restaurant fronts while outdoors

A true narcissist will never feel comfortable calling himself a narcissist. Vanity, however, is still free, fair and laudable game — and if ever there existed an indication that I am vain, three days without a mirror has indubitably been it.

When I left home for work on Friday morning, the nagging suspicion that I had forgotten something — maybe my wallet, or to brush my teeth, did I take my keys? Had I eaten breakfast? — haunted me all the way downstairs. Through the revolving door’s window reflection, I routinely but unwittingly recognized the familiar messy shirt inappropriately buttoned and tucked in only partially to a pair of high waist jeans, worn on the conception of someone who looked like me. I am a slave to the mirror.

For the rest of the day, I didn’t see me. I also didn’t think of the morning’s unresolved mismatched buttons or poor tucking job.

Saturday, I had lunch with three members of the opposite sex. One was my domestic living partner and the others were his bachelor comrades. I didn’t wear a bra under a black crew neck t-shirt, which according to said living partner, afforded me a textbook case of puffy nipple syndrome. You know the syndrome, right? It looks like two gummy bears trying to escape from under a bed sheet. I couldn’t see it, so didn’t really care.

On Sunday morning, I kept my head down during a SoulCycle class so as not to make eye contact with myself. After the class and in spite of a simultaneous cycling high and strained neck, I forgot about sweat and blotchy cheeks and gaunt eyes and took myself for breakfast. I felt great. This must have meant I looked great, too. And then my shadow provided intel regarding the cloud of the sweat-induced curls standing like a halo over my head.

Sunday night I wore a white sheepskin coat with a red handkerchief around my neck. My brother suggested that I looked like a chicken. It was funny and astute and I am confident that had I been able to see myself prior to exiting my apartment, I’d have drawn the parallel myself.

Of course, though, I didn’t, but here’s the thing about this experiment: What I learned is not that beauty is skin deep or that to feel good is more valuable than to look good. (Even though it’s true — and possibly, too, an important exercise for those of us in pursuit of confidence).

No.

What I learned is that people are far too caught up in their own vanity to really consider mine. For the duration of the three-day “cleanse,” no one — not even my husband, who’d diagnosed my puffy nipple syndrome — noticed I’d been on vainglory hiatus.

Often, we scrutinize our reflections to such a frequent and magnified extent that we forget no one can see the minute flaws we blow out of proportion. In examining ourselves, we look not for windows that provide pathways into our souls but rather for the imprisoning echo of imperfections. Why?

This morning, I woke up to the greeting of a mirror and subsequently, the minor colony of drying pimples that tickled my chin. I had no idea they’d been there.

Original Image shot by Lena C Emery

New York Closets: Daphne Javitch

Underwear: a window into the soul? Maybe.

Maybe not.

But difficult to contest, is the notion that wearing underwear is unique that in that it’s one of only a handful of experiences that much of humankind can relate with on some level.

Where one woman might hate the notion of a loin cloth that partitions her pants from her nether region, another might take solace in knowing that beneath her torn jeans are the most pristine pair of panties she’s ever known. But more interesting than the menial task of actually wearing underwear, there lies the notion of independent proclivities. One woman’s thong might be another’s dental floss where on the other side of town a pair of complete coverage knickers might help me sleep easier at night but completely disrupt your chakra. The possibility of establishing a middle ground does exist, though, and Daphne Javitch, our most recent New York Closets subject is championing just that with her quiet cult brand, Ten Undies. The aesthetic feels at once exclusively Californian and every-woman while preaching comfort, celebrating insouciant sexuality and respecting femininity.

Javitch is a denizen of Manhattan’s Lower East Side, who wears her jeans with the ease of a seasoned professional and her sweaters as though they were masterful works of art. If last week, Aziza Azim made you want to step up your coat game, this week, Javitch might have you reconsider the opening theory. If underwear is not a window into the soul, it may very well a style catalyst.

Monday: I’m really pushing the sandal season limit here, but acknowledging the transition with a sweater dress.

TEN x Ron Herman Japan knit dress, vintage Lee Denim jacket, Rondini Sandals

Tuesday: This jacket has saved many of my “most boring looks of all time.”

The Row leather jacket, Zara sweater, vintage white tee, APC jeans, Celine trio bag (somewhere underneath), Vans

Wednesday: Surrendering to fall and covering my ankles.

Suno coat, The Row jeans, A Detacher boots, Valextra bag

Wednesday part II: Chic Mechanic? Hi ankles. I’ll take a cab.

Vintage denim jumpsuit, Valextra bag, E Porselli ballet flats

Thursday:

My favorite part of this picture is all the reject outfits and accessories I tried to hide in the tub and drawers.

Steven Alan beanie, Wren sweater, Everlane t-shirt, The Row skirt, vintage Lee denim jacket, A détacher boots

Friday: I’m rushing out the door. I really like this outfit out of focus.

Unis camel sweater, Dries Van Noten skirt, A détacher boots, Celine tote

Wildcard: I’m going on a date with my husband after work. That’s all I can remember about this look. Old APC, sigh.

A.P.C shirt, A Détacher belt, TEN x Ron Herman Japan jeans, Boy by Band of Outsiders leather jacket

Sunday: It’s 8am on Sunday and I’m heading to work. I’m telling you, stylish pajamas are a really good investment.

Steven Alan beanie, Zara Sweater, vintage white t-shirt, Thom Browne sweatpants, Vans

Visit the Ten Undies website here, and follow Daphne on Instagram @tenundies.

Feature Images via J.Crew and Ron Herman

The Perfect Crime

In kindergarten, it was required that each child bring a change of clothes in case you ever had an “accident” in your school uniform.  This emergency pack contained whatever outfit your heart desired.  In a world of monotonous pleated jumpers and collared shirts, the freedom of a dress-down-day sat unassumingly folded in our cubbies.  Whenever it rained, Megan would convince me and Danielle to slide down the wet playground slide and feign ignorance as to why we had wet uniforms.  I got to look fresh to death in my floral print velvet leggings and matching turtleneck with no one the wiser.

***

In the first grade, I spat on a teacher’s head.  We were leaving art class and walking in line up a flight of stairs.  I looked down at the landing below and there, Mr. Everett’s cowlick formed a perfect bull’s eye.  As the loogie fell, I kept moving, never looking back.  Miraculously, no one noticed, save for one mystified and irritated educator.  The perfect crime.

***

In second grade, our school was under construction and the work crew spent most of their colder months digging a foundation outside my classroom window, smoking cigarettes as they dug.  That winter we learned in health class that smoking can kill you.  When Mrs. Courtemanch left the classroom for a minute, I took it upon myself to save the construction workers’ lives.  I called out to them, chanting, “Stop smoking! You’re going to die!”  They didn’t listen and I sat back down, while Sean and Eric took up the charge and got caught.  I was at my desk, in the clear.

***

In fifth grade, Gareth, Katie and I would sneak into the lower school teacher’s lounge and steal coffee creamers, and if we were feeling bold, a bagel.  We would split the bagel and drink the artificially flavored hazelnut or vanilla milk substitute for the thrill of it near the dumpsters by the basketball hoops. Who needs cigs when you’ve got illegal creamers.

***

While it is obvious I had ants in my pants as a kid, I was not as disruptive as it seems. Each of these episodes ended in a tearful confession: “I slide down the wet slide on purpose!”, “I don’t know why I spat on his head!”, “I started yelling at those men first!”, “I was just looking for a snack!” I sincerely meant every apology and in these incidences I learned that honesty is the best policy.

But the number one lesson I learned during my school girl days: snitches get stitches.  If you take the fall for your guilty classmates, you will be sitting pretty in their minds, wearing floral velvet leggings with a belly full of teacher’s lounge creamers, defying construction workers and teachers alike, laughing all the way to recess.

Written by Kelsey Moody. See this week’s prompt here.

If You’re Thinking About What to Wear This Weekend, Think About This

With the crux of last week’s acerbic weather lament behind us, a good thing to consider for the weekend before Thanksgiving is a selection of skirts to challenge the comfort of pants.

If you’re wondering why, I’d like to counter your query with this: why not?

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Just take a look at the way Deena Abdulaziz, in a burgundy ankle-length skirt replete with lace and tulle floor-grazing-detailing plods through Paris, compromising not the importance of warmth as evidenced by a complimentary grey sweater but recognizing, too, with the implementation of a pair of sandals, that fashion’s best character trait is the ability to look like you’re headed toward Christmas up top and the Carribbean down below. Wear camp socks if you’d like. Or tell me to stop shoving them down your throat if that’s becoming a point of contention.

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Similarly, Yasmin Sewell wears navy blue mohair that looks warm enough to contest the use of a coat-proper but with a softer, albeit louder, yellow silk skirt that seems to suggest a nod in the direction of domestic comfort coupled with femininity. There are sandals here, too, so, uh, camp socks?

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Okay, okay. How about a pair of boots? That are flat and ankle length and might compliment a skirt that falls just below the shin to carry you through the weekend? If you’re feeling particularly jazzy, I might recommend the kind of embellishment that makes your front side look a little like that of an emu’s. Then again, though, if you’re just looking for comfort in the familiar and ease in the department of style, I get it. I just also wonder why Jenna Lyons’ case for feathers hasn’t rubbed off on you?

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And in the event you’ve been laying on your side, supporting your upright head with the same side’s arm and lifting your legs up and down, up and down, side to side, bent and straight, shake what classic pilates training has bequeathed you. Make like Alexa Chung, keep it short, source some tights and throw yourself, gluts first, into the distance.

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I’ll see you at Karaoke.

Yes, I Still Watch That

“Is that even still on?”

In my hunt to have a morning-after conversation about the newest episode of America’s Next Top Model, I am most often met with that response.

Considering I recently watched a male model light candles and cast a Wiccan spell to vanquish a fellow competitor in their upcoming catwalk on stilts challenge, how people can even ask such questions baffles me.

Yes, it’s still on (21 cycles and counting!) and yes, I still watch it and no, I do not have to defend myself to you, but if I were to, I would say that there are now male models, male models have abs, and Tyra refers to their abs as “the boom boom boom.” I would also add that Tyra has gotten even more Tyra-er (catchphrases abound, as do framed baby pictures of Tyra covering the house that the models live in) and not all TV shows need to be Mad Men or Breaking Bad to be worth watching.

Sometimes, you just want to—no, need to—zone out and watch something familiar and ridiculous. Watching shows that everyone else assumes have ended is like ordering the same breakfast sandwich every Sunday morning when you’re hung over. So what if it’s a little embarrassing they know your address and how you want extra cheese? I’m in my 20s and am therefore in a constant flux, nothing—not my wardrobe, dream career, or city I need to move to—is constant. Nothing except for my Saturday morning viewings of ANTM, that is.

The other day my friend commented to me that this season Grey’s Anatomy was going to be so weird without Christina Yang, and I responded the only appropriate way: “You still watch that? I didn’t even know it was still on.”

Fess up. What do you still watch? This is a judgment-free zone.

MR Writers Club: Thanks for Giving

Because next week marks the unofficially official initiation of the crux of holiday season and with holiday season always comes a healthy bounty of stories that are worth being shared, re-shared and then maybe shared one more time, this week, the Writers Club wants to hear about your most salient Thanksgiving memory. This could run a range from the absurd (bringing your boyfriend to your grandmother’s and having your uncle walk in on you two post-Turkey consummating) to the adorable (that time your baby nephew came out dressed like Broccoli on a serving tray at the vegan Thanksgiving dinner of your mother’s best friend) or meet somewhere half way like it is a sour-patch kid, or something.

Per usual, the word limit clocks in at plus-or-minus 500 words. All submissions should be e-mailed to write@manrepeller.com by next Thursday, the 27th — Thanksgiving proper — at noon for publication on Saturday. Get involved via the hashtag, #mrwritersclub and don’t forget that reading your stories is THE BEST PART OF OUR WEEK.

Happy early Thanksgiving. Meet me at Bloomingdale’s in the maternity section — it’s finally almost stretchy pants week!

Original image shot by Bruno Dayan for Flair Italy

Style Jacking: Men of The 20’s

On Monday of this week, Iris Apfel waged the difference between the old New York and the new New York using a description: “No one used to walk down 5th Avenue like they were coming out of a shower bath.”

If this is true, there is something to be said of the luxury of convenience and comfort that has been afforded to modern humanity. Let man walk down 5th Avenue however he shall please, right?

But unfortunately, with the initiation of this luxury has seemingly come the depreciation of another, more traditional form where all the tangible stuff associated with glamour — hair flips and crystal socks, pocket squares and 800 thread count ties, three-piece suits because it’s Monday and hats that have nothing in common with baseball — have been lifted like a sanction and consequently forgotten.

What’s more, the stories from these days now seem so old, they tend to sound like nothing more than just that: fanciful stories of romantic fiction. But every now and then, it’s nice — perhaps even necessary — to marvel in the utopian days of yore.

So before we hang our caps for the weekend and kick off our Nike sneakers to reveal the thick fuzzy socks we’ve been wearing two days too long, let’s hear it for the men of the suspended days of suspenders, organized facial hair and quotidian dress shoes. Maybe we could take a cue from them, too.

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The Midnight Hunger Games Brigade

Not since Triumph the Insult Comic Dog’s Star Wars episode have I seen such a devout audience turn up to a film’s premiere. Super fans of the franchise were lined up — presumably starting the night prior — for Attack of the Clones. Yet even while Triumph openly mocked the countless Yodas, Princess Leias and Darth Vaders, a gaiety prevailed among the crowd.

Super fans were simply happy to be a part of the collective experience. Furthermore, they were surrounded by their people, and I’ll be damned if anyone tried to mess with them.

Unless you’ve been living under a (very ventilated) rock, you’re likely aware that The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 1, comes out at midnight. Scores of diehard fans have undoubtedly begun lining up for the best seat in the house which we all know, is the one that best highlights Peeta’s cheekbones.

Show up at 11:50 and you’ll be hopelessly scouring the house for a lone seat, because as midnight showings go, super fans travel in packs. Behold, the Midnight Hunger Games Brigade:

The Katniss Feminist

She comes in costume, and she means business. The Katniss Feminist wrote her dissertation on the eponymous heroine, and if anybody dares so much as to answer a text during the film, she will cut them down. Nay, she will crossbow them.

The Team Peeta Groupie

The Groupie maintains that Katniss does not deserve Peeta, who has been nothing but honorable throughout this trying time. The groupie shrieks every time Peeta’s mug graces the screen and is inclined to throw popcorn at his romantic rival, Gale.

The “Book Was So Much Better” Champion 

We all know this person. He or she insists that the film just doesn’t “capture the story’s essence” and “no, that’s not what Suzanne Collins meant!”

To the Champion I say, “Why are you here?”

The Task Rabbit Place Holder

This person drew the shortest stick of the lot. That is all.

The Frazzled Mom

The frazzled mom can usually be found squeezing through the rows with bags of popcorn, Raisinets and Coke wedged into every nook of her tired arms. She will mutter the words, “Never again,” countless times throughout the remainder of the film.

The All-Night Stoner 

This dude thought he was watching a dystopian remake of The Breakfast Club the entire time.

If you’re going, good luck. May the odds be ever in your favor.

(Sorry.)