Leandra Medine's Blog, page 725

All You Need is One

I want to be profound and say my interest in one piece bathing suits began as a revolt against the over-saturated market of skin. If we’ve become so jaded during this age of transparency that nipples have become just another accessory, then there is a chance that I’m looking to modesty for a new kind of subversive statement.

There’s a chance that when outfits became seemingly incomplete without showing at least some midriff, I began to seek refuge in the irony of what some may consider “matronly” swimwear.

There’s a chance I’ve been been secretly dying to for an excuse to write the word normcore, then use it in a sentence (aren’t one pieces high on that list?), and perhaps the greatest chance of all is that I didn’t feel like doing sit-ups all winter and am now leaning heavy on a trend that more or less hides this fact.

But the reality — the very boring, rather shallow truth — is that I spent the first 4 years of my aquatic life naked, and the other 22 wrestling with my bikinis so that I wouldn’t accidentally become naked (on the beach, or public pool, or backyard barbecue, what have you) and for once I think it would be nice to take a swim without worrying about whether or not I just flashed the neighbors.

Not that I’ve ever had any complaints, badum-cha! Here all night, folks.

Perhaps even more true is that I’m just into the way they look. Ever since Jenni Avins wrote an open letter to J. Crew asking Jenna Lyons (and co.) to resurrect their perfect scoop-back swimsuit of yesteryear, I’ve been reconsidering their aesthetic worth.

My mom used to a wear a black one. She appeared so at ease.

And there’s something beautiful in the simplicity of “one.” There’s no stress of perfecting the mismatched top-to-bottom. There’s no grocery list of styles: the bandeau for zero tan lines, the triangle for zero support, the cup for extra cleavage, the fringe for decoration, plus the need to pack them all so you can Instagram a new suit daily.

When you have one solid, good item that requires zero outfitting, zero consideration, I mean, that’s freedom.

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Call it normcore. Call it momcore. Call it boring, if you must.

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But for me, the idea of having just one piece to consider before diving headfirst into the ocean – that’s vacation.

I’ll Go Where She’s Going

When an unassuming female stranger in a New York City diner hears Meg Ryan’s character Sally jovially gasping yes, one of the most iconic phrases in cinematic history is made: “I’ll have what she’s having.”

And why wouldn’t she? Sally was purportedly thrilled. Unintentionally, she sold something to that unobtrusive onlooker. It may have appeared like an innocuous meal but fundamentally, it was much more. A personal resolution or tangible aspiration or the faintest whiff of a different kind of lifestyle under the guise of just a gasp.

In fashion, this selling is always in progress.

Of course, it is much more pronounced — after all, the industry is one built on consumerism — but it’s also far less frequently that a designer actually makes you think I’ll have what she’s having. Or maybe more acutely, I’ll go where she’s going.

Such was the case at Clare Waight Keller’s presentation for Chloé yesterday when, in a dynamic 31-look presentation, the designer, who’s been at the helm of Chloé since 2011, provided ample space to be anything and go anywhere.

The stark use of color, predominantly blue and green, inspired by Corbusier that Keller noted as “a bit laboratory like, mixed with a bit of Provence,” married a sense of romance to the industrial nature of a city.

The breezy tweed, nonchalant fringe and layers of silk in spaghetti strap form remained true to the spirit of a season that was once contingent on vacation, while the fur and leather and transitional pants and robe coats alluded toward a truth we are all beginning to accept as universal — that Resort is no longer a buffer season. It may even be on its way to becoming a third fashion week season. Keller agrees, noting that, “It’s becoming hard to have [Resort] be in the isolated form of a small presentation in one city.”

Of course, that doesn’t detract from the clothes themselves, which do tend to evoke that sense of I’ll go where she’s going. This is what makes Chloé cool. That and the fact that it’s smart. It’s not just designed fashion — it’s manufactured style and achievable ease. It’s a different kind of French girl — one that tries but doesn’t quite understand, or care about her clout.

On her own style, Keller says, “When you’re in a city like Paris, people do make an effort. Even if it looks effortless, there is some thought that’s gone into it and quite precise grooming.”

This mirrors the design process, which she calls more personal. “I think [pulling a collection together] is about what I feel is interesting to wear because, of course, if you’re designing fashion you get bored of it. You’re thinking about the new thing that you want in your wardrobe. There’s definitely a personal element in there. I think there’s an element for me where it’s important to have a character.”

This season, the assembled character of Resort comes with a new home. Last night, Chloé celebrated the renovation of its flagship boutique situated on 70th and Madison and it’s not without fortuitous reason that the collection presentation and re-opening would occur in tandem. “It just gives everybody the sense that it’s a new feeling. You’re not in an old environment,” Keller said.

A pink coriander communal table stands in the front of the shop displaying accessories emblematic of Keller’s touch at Chloé, while surrounding handbags and shoes elevate the ivory stone and modest gold details that translate toward the upstairs room. There, ready-to-wear flourishes on rustic bleached wooden hangers among models dressed in the Resort collection, which will hit sales floors in November and incidentally answer that initial question of where is she going with a fairly simple answer — 70th Street.

The Age of Transparency

During your final days in college, there’s not much else to do other than get naked. The first all-senior party I walked into was a nude one. I arrived, unaware of the dress code (or lack thereof), fully clad in jeans and a sweatshirt. Immediately, a girl wearing nothing but bodypaint scolded me. She clutched her breasts and said, “I’m sorry, but your clothing is making me really uncomfortable.” I looked around. I was a sore thumb in a sea of flesh. I turned to my friend, who was also fully clothed. She shrugged and removed her shirt. I frowned and left.

The “naked party,” or so it will go down in collegiate tales of lore, happened right after the “naked run,” a tradition that involves seniors streaking through the library at midnight before finals week. I didn’t do this one either.

Instead, I stood outside with the underclassmen and cheered on my classmates. It was a euphoric experience for some of them, a total shitshow for others. Runners in the front were immediately trampled. Some people wound up with concussions. Unathletic hipsters puked from the adrenaline rush.

The oddest consequence, however, was the number of people who lost their phones. The runners were stripped of everything, carrying nothing but their own junk, yet they were bound and determined to Instagram, Facebook, Tweet and Vine the whole experience, regardless of potential mobile-device casualties. After all, if their nudity wasn’t captured on camera, then it might as well never have happened.

I was reminded of this particular scene when I saw Rihanna’s nearly-naked CFDA outfit. This collision of sharing information and what’s underneath your clothing is, I would argue, a byproduct of an age where everything is public, even our privates. Instagram may have banned Rihanna’s account for nudity, but she found another, equally as public platform to share: fashion.

Though it’s resurfaced again recently by way of sheer paneling and bare nipples, the transparency trend is nothing new. In the early 2000s, designers like Alexander McQueen and Dolce & Gabbana began to play with sheer fabrics in a serious way. By 2007, the trend had fully taken hold: powerhouses like Chanel were sending nearly topless models down the runway. “This is a season of transparent fashion (haven’t you heard?),” said Cathy Horyn of the Spring 2011 shows. Now well into the year 2014, see-through clothing is no longer shocking, and you can thank social media for that.

Parallel to fashion’s decision to reveal, Internet culture was in the process of doing the same at the beginning of the millennium. In 2005 PostSecret‘s website was founded; in 2006 WikiLeaks was created. It’s no coincidence that fashion started shedding layers the minute others started whistleblowing.

Twitter was also launched in 2006, which provided a platform to be transparent every second of every day. Now, we know everything about everyone, whether we want to or not. We share Instagram photos, Facebook statuses, even our exact locations. Sure, nudity is still news, but at this point everyone and their mother feels comfortable showing some skin. We’ve got nothing left to lose.

Gertrude Stein once said with regard to trends in art, “Nothing changes from generation to generation except the thing seen.” For today’s generation, there’s nothing we can’t see. Call it invasive, or vain or downright unethical. Whatever’s going on, it’s probably not going to stop. There’s no unseeing things. We can only have a critical eye. So, if you don’t like it, don’t look.

Images via Style.com

Thinking About the Summer Trench

I really like fall and spring – I get to wear light jackets in the former without needing to take them off or put another one on and during the latter, once the novelty of walking outside sleeves-free wears off, all I really want to do is strike the perfect over-garment balance of cool and appropriate. (If such a balance even exists.) (But also, I use the word “appropriate” very loosely.)

In the past, the closest I have come to this approximation has been via a leather jacket (which has consistently proven itself suffocating and torturous past June) and a utility jacket (recently, the thrill of wearing one has warn off for me if it does not look like a bonafide safari coat, one that either Eliza Thornberry would have worn or another that could call itself the top-half of a cargo-suit). This season, I want to highlight the importance of a summer trench.

Underscored here are three different versions I have accrued in the last, let’s say, year that serve different purposes but not necessarily different functions.

Starting with the slouchy fit, linen-cotton blend Acne jacket, replete with elastic drawstrings and exaggerated sleeve buckles, this trend coat is one I call the Cool Kid Trench. It creates the illusion of coolness though as dissected last week, we know very well is just an illusion.

Paired with it are ivory leather culottes by Adam Lippes, a grey t-shirt by Zimmermann, gladiator sandals by Rebecca Minkoff, two arm scaves by Anna Coroneo and sunglasses by Mykita. If I were to wear this somewhere indoors, I imagine I would not take off the sunglasses and then explain to people that “I’m so cool, I won’t even talk to myself.”

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The yellow silk robe-y trench coat, which hits close to my ankle, seems to play the role of spectacularly futile which, of course, makes it the most remarkable and indulgent of the group. You absolutely can’t get it wet and if you are to leave sweat rings on it, you best commit to said rings. It’s styled with a striped t-shirt from Zara and white JNCO-style pants by Rosie Assoulin. I’m also wearing a barrette in my hair which makes me feel ten years younger. It’s by Ana Khouri.

I might show up at your doorstep wearing nothing but the trench later.

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Just kidding.

And finally, iteration numero tres features a trench coat that you can and should actually wear on a day like today when the sky is projectile vomiting water. It is very lightweight so I imagine it was intended precisely for the purposes outlined in this post (e.g. comfortably wearing a summer jacket). It’s paired with an old Proenza Schouler t-shirt you can probably find on Yoox or The Real Real and vintage Levi’s jeans. The mules are Chloe and make me feel like I am quinceanara bound.

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Approximate your own summer look using the handy dandy shoppable bars and then send selfies and call them #trenfies.

Summertime and the Living’s Hands Free

So you can ride a bike with no handlebars. Big whoop. I can ride a bike if someone is holding on to it while walking beside me but you don’t see me bragging about it. What’s actually impressive is figuring out how to ride life with no handlebars.

I’m talking about a hands-free summer.

Just imagine it: no more carrying crap. No more wet-shouldered walks across the Manhattan desert of Midtown avenues while sporting some dumb satchel. No more armpit clamps or hand cramps. No more pools of condensation from keeping your elbow bent to carry that dumb bag. No more dropping things. No more losing things! No more whacking strangers on the subway or trying to figure out where to put your clutch during a date. No more schlepping. No more purse means no more responsibility – school’s out for summer, arms open for the party.

Going totally hands-free is a commitment to fun. You can cartwheel on a moment’s notice. You can high-five yourself when you tell a good joke. You can hand jive to Grease without having to put down your shit, and you’re consistently prepared to double-fist adult beverages. It’s serious business – this takes logistical planning, dedication, phenomenal social skills, and bravery — but if you follow my guide, you’ll be living La Vida Bluetooth in no time.

Invest in clothing with pockets

Very rarely do we actually make use of our clothing’s sewn-in utility, but it turns out that pockets are great for holding things. Maybe this is why Leandra wants cargo shorts.

Alternatively, learn to appreciate nature’s pockets

Kangaroos have had it right all along. So too, I suppose, have drug mules. I bet you’ve never tried to keep your house key inside your belly button, but if you ask either of them (a kangaroo or a drug mule, that is), it’s definitely doable. And if for some reason you can’t bear the thought of keeping your debit card in your various DNA-given ATMs, opt for a Boobypack. Then raise your arms in celebration.

Find a friend who is bringing a purse no matter what

Then slip your belongings in when she isn’t looking.

Ask strangers to hold things for you

You kind of have to trick them at first — “Excuse me, do you mind holding this umbrella, backpack, shopping bag and antique rug I just found while I quickly tie my shoe?” — then engage them in conversation long enough until you’ve reached your destination.

Now, if you’re concerned about someone running off with your crap, let me ask you this: when’s the last time you handed your phone to a stranger so they could take a picture of you and your friends? Yesterday? Exactly. A stranger is just a purse you haven’t met yet.

Create urban hiding places

I like to dig holes around various locations in the city and hide important things: my ID lives under a tree near my favorite bar, my emergencies-only credit card is shoved into a potted plant outside of Barneys. I keep a Chapstick under the floor mat of nearly every coffee shop I frequent and drop my phone off in puddles of water whenever convenient.

Just don’t bring shit with you

And hope for the best.

Restaurants, friends, roommates and police tend to get really annoyed with this one, but not having to hold anything all summer is worth it.

…Especially if you need your hands free to grab on to your bike.

Feature image via Downtown from Behind

Your Friday Denim Pick-me-Up

You know what’s great about Fridays in June?

Unofficially, they’re like the antithetical third day of the acknowledged-by-the-Gregorian-calendar-as-we-know-it weekend.

This is technically more impressive than the Fridays of July because by then, the wheels of summer are in motion and we’ve become so well acclimated to our newfangled three days conceivably off that they start to seem like a God given right.

By August, we’re gearing up for the September that invariably follows (live a little, calendar! Throw us a curveball in the form of a July re-do!), and therefore, too, the end of our proverbial book report extensions (you know what I mean, right?).

So in this sweet spot — these magical Fridays that still find us at work though not really working — stationed between our respective senses of entitlement and the beginning of the end of our long weekends, let’s do what we can to keep the hours left indoors interesting and the inspiration that transcends physical location at an all time spectacular.

Up this week is a reliable glance through the denim look book of our lives, starring though not exclusively featuring Marilyn Monroe, Freja Beha and the very reliable Levi Strauss. An important question to consider is this: will we ever get sick of denim?

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I’ll let you be the judge.

Cool vs. Effortless

I have always wanted to look cool. To be the kind of girl who not just makes you think you can do that too but forces you to want to try it. I want to exude that sense of: she could be wearing a potato sack and still look great. Maybe in fact, in that last approximation, I am wearing a potato sack.

Fundamentally, though, I understand that I’m not cool.

You can’t fake cool — cool is inherent and you either are it or you’re not. This means nothing about style other than, I suppose, that to be cool immediately vaccinates a woman (or man) against bad style. Think Johnny Depp or Daria Werbowy or Erin Wasson. With Depp’s hair so dirty it is almost dreadlocked, or Werbowy’s insouciant nose ring and dirty white tank tops, or Wasson’s ripped shorts and desert boots, these icons-in-their-own-right emit a sense of style that we love not because of the clothes but because we’re attracted to the swagger.

It is effortless by definition, though interesting to note is the fact that “effortlessness” as a style movement can be faked. And well, at that. If it’s true that good artists copy and great artists steal, then when it comes to fashion, effortless dressing is at the crux of this saying. Designers like Phoebe Philo or Clare Waight-Keller — with their clean lines and silhouettes that whisper, not yell, with great aplomb — have mandated so.

This is arguably what has incited the viral concept that is “normcore,” but something people fail to recognize quite frequently with normcore is that looking like you didn’t try — pairing flip flops with jeans and a silk blouse, or a dress with dirty tennis shoes — doesn’t necessarily mean you’re in style. You might be on trend, but when considering the umbrella of style, which does not shield the pour of trendiness, there is another variable at play and that is impressiveness.

I have deduced, based on conversations with friends about the garments they say they’ll never tire of wearing, and images of Anna Wintour, standing relentlessly and with poise in her Manolo Blahnik sandal mules, that good style doesn’t aim to impress anyone but the self.

It’s a private conversation between the wearer and the clothes. Wintour, along with any of the aforementioned friends, choose the items that they choose to wear over and over again, not taking into account a third party opinion that might role its eyes at the redundancy, because the items, whatever they are, suit the wearers.

They make them feel like the realistically best or most accurate versions of themselves.

These “versions” may appear polished because that might be someone’s sense of effortless. They might also not, but at the respective core here is either the illusion of effortlessness or an accurate portrayal of it. And no matter how you slice that, a new progeny is born and that is authenticity.

Now to be able to fake that seems pretty damn cool.

Style Like You Mean It

I remember very little from the five years I spent fancying myself a ballerina. I cannot recreate my turnout or conjure up once-instinctual barre movements. Still, I do recall the exact tone that a foul-tempered instructor named Marta used to inform me that ballet was not supposed to be effortless. “It’s supposed to look effortless.”

Chalk it up to my Soviet training. While I may never have realized a career as a dancer, I found myself channeling Marta and her militant refrain each time I embarked on annual back-to-school shopping trips. No matter how considered or strategic, style should seem easy, breezy! (Beautiful! CoverGirl!). It should be delicate and graceful — like a sugarplum fairy or Carey Mulligan.

During those years, I bought cardigans and cheerful dresses. I rejected overtly assertive alternatives and amassed drawstring bags, a rainbow of ballet flats, and as many Lancôme Juicy Tubes as I could convince my mother to buy. Long before Beyoncé said so, I was desperate to at least appear as though “I woke up like this.”

I wasn’t the only one. After we outgrew our erstwhile longing for pin-straight hair and French manicures, my friends and I all aspired to long, flowing locks, sun-kissed makeup, and a wardrobe full of the kind of generic “going-out” tops that Mandy Moore wore so well. Teenage girls are capable of a thousand kinds of evil, but none seemed so vicious to me as the pronouncement I once overheard at a high-school party: “Ugh. Her outfit is trying way too hard.”

That is until right about now. After several decades of feigned indifference, it’s finally cool to care.

I have proof. Hedi Slimane’s most recent Saint Laurent runways boasted the kind of sharp-shouldered women so sexy they might have made Marta blush. The exuberant silhouettes that Rosie Assoulin designs are not exactly for sugarplums. Neither is Sophia Amoruso’s edgy fringe or Lena Dunham’s constellation of tattoos or the Birkenstocks that Phoebe Philo has redeemed.

Be it Edie Campbell in leather leggings and Technicolor sneakers or Jenna Lyons in a rainbow of rhinestones and chambray, the best of us are no longer too scared to admit to some sartorial deliberation. The result? Well, I think it’s a lot more exciting than the tired, “Oh, this old thing?” gambit of yesteryear.

But not all my evidence is observed. I have in fact experienced the revelation myself. A few weeks ago, I stepped into a tiny dressing room in East London. Egged on by a friend and former hip-hop dancer, I shimmied into a sculptural marigold skirt and cropped silk tank. A whisper of midriff peeked out. I stared at the bold sliver of skin and considered the girl that faced me in the mirror. She did not look “dainty” or “delicate.” She did not affect effortlessness. She seemed strong and observant and audacious. I decided I liked her a lot.

Life is not like ballet class. No one even pretends it’s going to be easy. But it is exhilarating and dynamic and a constant adventure. These days, it can finally look like one.

This is Your Brain on Planets

Man do I wish we were at a Chevys right now so I could whisper to the waiter that it was “someone’s birthday!” while cheekily pointing at a nearby Gemini, and then 15 minutes later watch as a stampede of waiters parade out singing the Tex-Mex chain’s trademarked b-day song while slamming a giant sombrero on the Twin Sign’s head. Wouldn’t that be divine?

As a general note, Mercury’s retrograding which means we need to accept the summer chillll. Also, June 24th is going to suck for everyone. I suggest we all stay in bed that day and Netflix it up until the shit show is over.

Other than that — Chevys waiter! Kindly hand me a Susan Miller Margarita and let’s get started! 

Gemini 

Per the promo, Mercury’s going back into retrograde, but Suz encourages you to be glad about it because it means June’s gonna be chiller than a cucumber dipped in tzatziki. Use this as a time to look back at it. (The past. Not your butt. Though do that too!) Watch your words on June 24 — people around you will take everything the wrong way. Ask for a raise on June 27. Finally, this is going to be a highly romantic month for you, which I feel like Susan always predicts for your sign…actually, general question to all my Geminis: are your dance cards permanently full, or do we think Suz has a crush on a Gem and she’s just dropping monthly hints? LMK down below. HBD!

Cancer   

You have a bodyguard, and his name is Jupiter. It’s your last month being protected by the planet, so enjoy every minute of it, you Whitney Houston of the Astrological World. Suz encourages a staycation this month rather than a vaycation, claiming that the first 10 days of June are best spent meditating. If I were you I’d just ignore her. She does say the rest of the month is sparkly, socially-speaking, BUTTT, don’t have a party on that stupid June 24th day as your guests are likely to start a food fight. Three days later, however, you’re getting a new moon and a big fat solar kiss. Pucker up!

Leo

Susan really wants you to daydream this month. She sort of doesn’t shut up about it the whole way through so I guess this means you can nap at work and then blame it on her. Don’t sign papers this month. Don’t buy an iPad or Galaxy S5 on the 24th.  Apparently you also “desperately need fun.” Raise your hand if you feel offended. If you, like Allie from The Notebook, have been crying that you don’t paint anymore, get to it. The end of the month looks awesome for your creative ass, so I’ll be accepting various renderings of myself via email now until July.

Virgo  

“Choose your favorite outfits to wear to work, dear Virgo, for in early June, your career will light up the night sky. You will be on fire!” What an opening of your ‘scope, you guys. Sounds like a trip to Talbots is in order! Embrace the hustle for real though, and make that money. Don’t travel in early June. Like Leo, don’t buy new technology. (Maybe both of you should invest in an Otter Box to be safe.) “It behooves you to buzz around at events as much as possible,” she says of the end of June. Which I mostly just told you because when in the hell does one get to say “behooves”? Not enough, that’s for dang sure.

Libra

Bust out that hawaiian shirt and take a vacation — it sounds like you had a rough couple of months. (Don’t have to tell you twice, amiright?) She talks about Mars being a hungover boy back in the middle of May who keeps asking for cups of coffee, so in all honestly my eyes glazed over and I was just like, Susan, what? (Perhaps you do that when reading me too…uh…) But she does say “sexy Mars” is in Libra which gives you the power of attraction, and that the movement of Venus to Gemini will be a “boon” to your love life. Who knows what a boon is. It sounds like bone. Have fun be safe!

Scorpio

According to $usan, “as a Scorpio, you are known to be a brilliant strategist.” (You know who else is a strategizing, chess-playing Scorpio? Drake.) So use the quietness of June to consider upcoming options so you chose the best one. Focus on money management. Get rich or die trying. Don’t die actually, not worth it for the paper. Here’s a gross sentence she wrote regarding a full moon on June 12: “This full moon has a delicious vibe from Uranus, planet of surprise.” Potential butt jokes aside, she predicts that surprise might be a nice check, a valuable gift, or a great bargain. It is sale season, after all. And your feet aren’t going to shoe themselves.

Sagittarius 

With Mercury in retrograde, Susan writes that “you will have a free ‘get out of jail’ card (from the Monopoly board game)” — thanks for the reference, never would have gotten it on our own, Suz –  and to really make the most out of it. This is strange because she told another sign that if they don’t leave town soon enough, they might end up IN jail. So. You’re the lucky one! Career-wise, don’t be afraid to get really, really creative this month. The more out-there your ideas are, the stronger chance they have for approval. Something tells me whoever does advertising for Starburst and Skittles must be a Sag. Like Sophie said this morning, let your niche flag fly.

Capricorn

You may find yourself backtracking a bit this month: on love connections, on business relationships, on assignments. My advice? Strap on a pair of roller blades and flip it in reverse a la Missy Elliott because everyone’s going on the same ride. Speaking of roller blading, now’s a great time to work on your fitness. (She also thinks it’s a good time to go to the dentist, get your shots, bla bla bla.) June 18th is going to be a “VERY” romantic day, so I’d call up an Aquarius and rekindle an old fashioned Mercury-Retrograde-flame. On the 27th, you’ll be hashtag — her words, not mine — “blessed.” 

Aquarius

Susan encourages your sign to flock to “resort type weekend locations” early in June as it will be a special time for you “if you have no one to love.” (Be more harsh, Sus. My invisible CAT loves me.) Some places she suggests: Hamptons, the New Jersey shore, Cape Cod, Nantucket, or Martha’s Vineyard, “as a few examples.” Well how about you take me with you, you know, as an example. From June 23-July 18th your loins are really going to be on fire, and you’ll meet not one but TWO interesting people. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: kiss a lot of frogs, but don’t get mono.

Pisces

April and May were “loud, busy, sweaty months” for you, according to DJ Susan Miller. Does that mean you spent a lot of time in and/or around Ibiza? How about Lavo? Perhaps the ball pit at Burger King? Whatever you did — no judgement though — use Mercury’s retrograde to take a knee and put the glow sticks down. Paint your living room instead! Clear out clutter! Prep yourself for June 12 when something awesome is going to happen career-wise! Rethink any relationships (love in a hopeless place, perhaps?) that you entered into too quickly, because June 27 is about to get “VERY” romantic, Suz writes in all caps. Bow-chicka-NEP-TUNE.

Aries

Meetings are going to get cancelled this month because of Mercury, which is my personal favorite thing ever. Let’s hope this means annoying after-work-engagements get kiboshed as well, because is there anything better on this PLANET than a cancellation? No. In other news, if you’re writing something, get an editor. In even more pressing news, Suzy says “If you do not travel over the full moon period June 12, you may be involved in a legal matter instead.” Which means you have 8 days to commit a crime and then get the hell out of town.

Taurus

Susan Miller begins our ‘scope by playing Two Lies and a Truth. Can you guess which one is the truth? A) “I never hear a Taurus complain,” B) “Complaining doesn’t help – it makes you feel worse.” and C) “all who meet you find you so loveable.”

C. The answer is obviously C.

Moving on, it’s a good month to travel, make doctors’ appointments (ahhahahh), and is the ideal time to ask for a rai$e. As for June 18th? Circle it in gold because good stuff’s gonna happen.

Finally, not to be awkward, but Susan kind of hinted that some of you guys have been tweeting at her that dates she predicted were wrong. (I will not participate as to whether or not I have done the same. . .) She reminds us all that nothing is predetermined and we have to use elbow grease to activate the astrological powers. My question is: does coconut oil work as well? 

Illustration by Cynthia Merhej 

The Perks of Being Niche

Ever since College Humor released its video on being basic, the term has seemingly become a part of everyday vernacular. According to The Cut, a basic female is “a terminally boring Sex and the City viewer and consumer of pumpkin-spice lattes.” To what degree it hurts to be called “basic” probably varies person to person, but no one seems to be taking it as a compliment.

To me, though, the basic woman is more or less a mythological figure. They might exist, just like Big Foot or unicorns — who am I to dismiss whether or not something occurs in nature? But all of the women in my life are dynamic, interesting, and run a greater risk of being classified as insane rather than “basic” (cue: me telling Leandra I want a backpack and her replying “a human backpack?” — there is nothing basic about that level of loony). I’m sure this is the case for you too.

And among all of the characteristics that make my friends spectacular, there is one that really sets them apart from the “basic” females of digital media folklore. That trait is “niche,” and it’s the antidote to basic. Merriam Webster defines niche as “a specialized market” and, let me be clear: as much as I appreciate brilliance, kindness, humor and all of that good stuff, nothing makes me want to get to know someone more than realizing they are niche too.

To be niche is to live a life of inside jokes. It’s to apply a filter, or multiple filters, over the way you see things. Whether you take in the world through Kelvin or Valencia is not important to me, so long as you are not just applying Normal*. Maybe you know someone who uses Seinfeld quotes to articulate every point, or has a funny way of pronouncing certain easy-to-pronounce words? Those people are niche and I bet they are awesome.

The reigning queen of niche is my good friend Rachel. What Beyoncé is to music, she is to niche. Rachel’s lifestyle technically epitomizes basic from a bird’s eye view: she works in fashion, eats a lot of chopped salad, goes to 16 Handles nightly for copious amounts of Tahitian vanilla, and spends her weekends taking $30+ exercise classes. But there is nothing, and I really mean nothing, basic about her.

For instance, she can’t speak in plain English and has developed her own vernacular. She would never simply say “want to grab lunch?” Instead, she will text me “I would [insert sexually explicit act here] a [insert unattractive male trait here] man for a [insert pretentious health food item here].” If something is a turn off she calls it “ice to the loins,” and if she is referring to McDonalds she says “Ron’s Steakhouse**.”

John Lennon once said that being honest won’t make you every friend but it will make you the right ones. The same can be said for being niche. Being slightly off and extremely esoteric means having selective and self-selective relationships, but trust me, it’s worth it. So let me know if you ever come across a thoroughbred “basic,” because I believe that everyone has a little something odd inside of them, and it’s best to embrace it.

*Note that Normal is a synonym for basic… Coincidence? I think not.

** A reference stolen from her best friend Lauren, whom she calls TLP in reference to an infamous 2007 voicemail left by her favorite A-list actor

Illustration by Charlotte Fassler