Leandra Medine's Blog, page 734

Good Taste Doesn’t Always Mean Good Style

I bought this pair of white suede platforms at the end of last summer and I was sure I was going to wear the hell out of them. They’d really well compliment a pair of peg leg jeans in their spectacularly gargantuan glory but they’d also serve as the most effective trick under flare leg pants, creating the illusion that I am 6 feet tall when in reality, I am absolutely not.

Still high on my purchase, I met a friend for a coffee and, of course, showed her the shoes to which she explained that she hated them. Not only that, though, she was determined to explain that in just a few weeks time, I would probably hate them too.

I appreciated her honesty but respectfully disagreed. They were white! And suede! There was absolutely no way they wouldn’t become a pillar of my wardrobe. And in any case, I didn’t care very much for the way that she dressed herself, which was obviously a marker for her taste, wasn’t it? She was often found in loose fit, uneven hemmed lace v-necks and cropped palazzo style drop crotch pants that would have been decent had she forgone the damn v-neck and opted not to wear them with knee high socks and high top sneakers.

So what would she know about white suede platforms in conjunction with me anyway. Am I roiiiiight?

Fast forward three months though, and not a single wear.

Fast forward six months. Still not a wear.

Now fast forward to about three weeks ago and you can find an image of me regrettably stuffing the never-worn platforms into a black garbage bag titled “Stuff to Sell.” And just like that, the lace v-neck wunderkind of yore was right. I was going to hate them. I did hate them. So, that got me thinking about taste, style and the difference between the two because ultimately, it turned out, you can totally trust a person’s taste without agreeing with their style.

It’s just, why is that — or maybe easier to answer is, how is that?

When considering taste, it’s important to break down the experience. Humans receive the anterior through sensory glands, right? Sometimes they’re delightfully digestible (pun absolutely intended) and sometimes they’re repulsive. What you find repulsive, I might find delightful and vice versa. Often too, we may even agree on the way taste makes us feel. Take chocolate for a moment — is it safe to call it a universally accepted comfort food?

I’m going to do it anyway.

I love chocolate.

So do many women, as evidenced by the not-backed-by-stats spike in sales near Valentine’s Day and approaching menstrual cycles. But just because we all like chocolate, doesn’t mean that we eat it the same way. Or even that we eat it as frequently as, say, a man might.

Make sense?

Now consider a woman and her perception of what makes an outfit good. I, for example, may absolutely love the way Kate Moss looked in a photo shot by Corinne Day, where she is wearing white Birkenstocks and loose fit white jeans and a cropped vest top that was accompanied by dangling fringe trim topped off with yarn balls. I can appreciate why she wore it, the point she emanated and the reason it worked but that doesn’t mean that I should wear it, too.

And see, just because my friend may not wear clothes the way I do does not mean that her taste — her opinion on style, and her understanding of why something does or does not work — is off. Because, really, what was I thinking with a pair of white suede shoes, anyway?

The “Frozen” Obsession and the Song “Let It Go”

I knew the sickness was deep when I found myself inexplicably singing along to my friend Caitlin’s ringback tone. It was as if I’d been possessed, my eyes widening and hand reaching upward to grab my throat like an overacting B-List celebrity in a sub-par horror film. Only instead of ominously being told, “You’re next” by the devil, it was my own voice that scared the shit out of me: I’d just sung along to the full chorus of “Defying Gravity.”

The words, it seemed, had ingrained themselves into my brain through Wicked-mania osmosis — the song had taken over my world seemingly overnight and against my will. My friends were slipping various songs from the soundtrack into our regular playlists like audio rufies. One second I was rapping along to “Colt 45″ and then next thing I knew I was hit with a heavy blast of positive messaging by way of two witches and their aversion to gravity.

In psychology class they taught us about a phenomenon called the Familiarity Principle: the more you’re exposed to something, the more you like it. Annoying Angie from Accounting, for example, will eventually become tolerable by nature of seeing her each day. But when it came to me falling into the cult of Broadway sing-a-longs, it went deeper than office pleasantries because it was affecting my entire life.

I’d spent my childhood rebelling against my theater professor father, refusing to get sucked in the lure of musicals and yet somehow, against my own will, the disease took over. It happened first with Rent. Wicked was phase two. I’d avoided Les Mis up until last year’s Oscar fever, and now it’s happening again by way of a movie called Frozen and three evil words: Let. It. Go.

I swore I wouldn’t like this song. But even before the track became a hit, I refused to see the movie, mostly because I refuse to be an adult who watches cartoons (although Pixar’s success clearly denotes I’m the minority.) But a ton of my friends saw it. They told me I “had to see it too” so I blocked them on Facebook. Vogue got into it — they styled a whole imaginary wardrobe around “film.” Then the song won an Oscar and Danny Zucko messed up Idina Menzel’s name and the whole thing suddenly felt extremely unavoidable if not downright invasive.

It was on a recent three-hour train ride from Rhode Island to New York that I almost snapped; a very oblivious girl blasted the song for the entire duration. Had her eyes not been open I would have assumed she simply died with the song stuck eerily on her iPod’s loop, but no, she was alive. Completely cognizant and apparently extremely hard of hearing.

I learned all the words. I didn’t want to, but I did. Elsa the snow princess and my annoying seat-mate were in a duet that refused to be missed, no matter how loudly I turned up my own headphones or how blatantly I stared at her to SHUT THE FUCK UP. The lyrics were seared into my brain, the melody stuck like gum at the bottom of my Amtrak seat.

Immediately I empathized with university casting directors. This is how they must feel at open calls for college musical productions, as student after student belts the same exact audition song. For a while that very song was “Defying Gravity,” and I wonder if they, like I, eventually gave in by defeat. I wonder if after the anger dissipates and the fatigue sets in, the Familiarity Principle’s point proves itself once again. Like Angie from Accounting, the song doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, it’s kind of catchy, and suddenly you find yourself…dare I say it…downloading the track you swore you’d hate from Frozen.

Another 99 cent piece of my dignity gone. Whatever. Let it go.

Spring Cleaning

Spring cleaning has felt much more like a self-fulfilling prophecy than it has a nod to old house tradition this year, which is probably because the technical initiation of spring has little to do with the meteoric occurrences of this moody planet. But there is something to be said independent of the actual cleaning process that makes simultaneously heavy and light of the annual purge, particularly when it comes to my closet.

For me, each piece of clothing is imbued with memories of our joint capers, and though we may not spend as much time together presently, I’m typically not eager to formally abandon the physical manifestation of those memories. Just because I’m no longer wearing a piece, doesn’t mean I don’t still love it.

But as a loyal supporter of the tenet that if you haven’t worn something in a full year’s time, you should get rid of it, it would be unbecoming to stay attached to pieces just because of the memories they harbor. Especially, I should add, because ultimately, I’m the one harboring their memories. The clothes are just ephemeral talismans. There’s also the reality that I will continue to add a few choice pieces each season.

With that in mind, I spent last Saturday lifting garments off the hangers that litter my closet, and sorting them into three piles: donations, family giveaway, and The RealReal.

I’ve been sending my wares to the luxury consignment site for just over five months and have found the process so easy — you either mail the pieces directly, or schedule an appointment for at-home pickup — that I’ve sent at least three pairs of shoes I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to, and at least one dress that would have been incredibly useful today.

But the real(real) reason I’m particularly pleased with the experience is that it addresses the two fundamental and opposing issues I have with my closet, which is that I love each piece, and simultaneously want to be less attached to my possessions. And the added bonus of making money while making space is a great (if ironic) motivator to pare down the wardrobe, even if I end up finding new pieces to fill that space.

Take the above photographed ivory Isabel Marant sweater, coupled with spring cleaning gloves – I traded in a grey fisherman’s sweater by Marc Jacobs for it. And the black crystal Valentino pumps? I may not have had a lesser version of those, but I did expel a pair of yellow sandals from my closet just last month and though I miss them, I’m confident that the new pumps and I will forge a fresh slew of memories between now and next spring, when we’re ready to consciously uncouple.

Part 1 of 1 in collaboration with The RealReal.

The RealReal is the one of the largest online luxury authenticated consignment stores, selling the likes of Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and Gucci up to 90% off. Should you also have an inclination towards fashion, cleaning, and cash, The RealReal is currently offering new consignors a $50 gift card to Neiman Marcus through April 30, and as always, consignors can make up to 70% of the selling price.

Breaking Up Though You Were Never Together

Twenty-six is going to be a strange birthday because I’m anticipating getting broken up with. It’s not a premonition so much as it as a definitive notion in that my current health insurance doesn’t want to be with me anymore. It thinks we’re at different points in our lives, or something cliché and Owen Wilson-y like that. And yet as my hypochondriacal fears begin to set in (what if I develop tuberculosis or colic before getting new insurance, for example), I’m realizing that it’s been a while since I’ve actually been “dumped” by a person as opposed to a system.

I’m not bragging. My un-dumped track record for the past three years has more to do with the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve been in a “real relationship,” and we’ve skimmed the surface of this before: that in this age of hook ups and hang outs, there’s less breaking and a lot more phasing.

Guys have casually dropped the mic on me, for sure. And I’ve Irish Goodbye’d from men in my rotation as well. But when talking to a friend last night about the breakup she was enduring (to a man who was less than a boyfriend but more than a bedmate) I realized that ending things has gotten significantly more complicated — not just because of technique (again, see: Band-Aids) but because this style of dating adds pressure to play it perennially cool.

She lamented that her feelings were textbook to those of a “traditional” termination (traditional if you consider a relationship to be that which our grandparents once knew): stomach pit, distracted thoughts, and threats of tears when confronted with the endless supply of NYC’s excessive PDA. The problem was, she didn’t know how to “deal” with her emotions. She felt dumb for being sad since they weren’t “technically” a couple.

But so what?

My therapist named Oprah believes that all emotions are relevant; no one can tell you that you can’t feel a certain way. But because my dear friend doesn’t feel like feeling sad about the guy she was sleeping with (but not exactly dating), we came up with a guide for being broken up with in this messy-ass 21st century.

Step 1. Acceptance. Accept that whatever it was, it is now over.

Step 2. Be thankful that because you were not official, there is no awkward post-breakup Facebook protocol to follow: no status to change, no pictures to crop.

Step 3. Don’t get all dramatic and go un-following him or her off Instagram.

Step 4. Feel sad, but maybe don’t tell everyone at the bar how sad you are. Do, however, pretend the juke box and or deejay is your personal iPod and play/request whatever songs you want as often as you like.

Step 5. Meet. New. People. The thing about the world is that it’s technically overpopulated (which I can attest to because of Tinder) so shake hands like you’re the mayor and remind yourself that your prior dalliance is a but a mere blip in a line of great stories you will later tell.

There’s an old song by Peggy Lee where she sounds like a jaded New Yorker, repeatedly asking “is that all there is?” in regards to a circus, a house fire, and finally, love. When she describes having her heart broken, “I thought I’d die,” she says. “But I didn’t.”

And you won’t.

Tuberculosis however…that would be a bitch.

Know Your Labels: Atea

Coalescing alkaline with acid results in the two minerals having effectively cancelled each other out, much in the same way that coupling two adjectives with opposite meanings does.

But those couplets of words tend to be used when describing fashion collections. I’m thinking combinations like, “advanced youth,” “atrociously beautiful” and “boyish femininity.”

Often, too, they get lost on their audience. And why wouldn’t they, right? Fundamentally, they make no sense. It’s just that the collections that extract the sentences don’t function as just one thing. They fuse references and ideas and concepts from opposite ends of varying spectrums, throw them into a blender and present the physical manifestation of that which concludes the creative process.

Sometimes, there are no alternatives to the flowery idiosyncrasies, lest you resolve to show and not tell, which as determined earlier this week and thanks to the photo feature on an iPhone, doesn’t quite massage the descriptive muscle of a writer’s mind the way it used to.

Atea, a London based ready-to-wear label evinces the spirit of some of the aforementioned literary paradoxes in that it is elaborately minimal. It whispers to its wearer, but yells in the direction of projected confidence. It’s moderate luxury.

The label provides a smart and well constructed selection of clothing that functions as the bones of a woman’s wardrobe — the pillars that insouciantly keep it poised and afloat. There are pants and double breasted jackets. There are t-shirts and shorts and slip dresses and skirts but nothing is dramatic or exaggerated. If it’s not striped, it’s solid.

There are no tricks, nor are there caveats. The clothes are backlighters and yet, they’re striking. They don’t require compensatory prints or silhouettes. They stroke an urgency to continue discovering meaning in minimalism — not unlike the clothes of Phoebe Philo — but do so at a price point more digestible than the anterior’s without compromising attention to fabric.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the value in building a wardrobe of clothing that can’t be ruined by third-party interpretation.

You think about a dress that is in season. It’s bright and printed and no matter how much you loved it when you first locked eyes, the first time — sometimes the only time — you see it worn unfavorably-according-to-you, it’s ruined. It becomes irrevocably tainted by that image. Then you think about jeans, or a t-shirt or “the essentials” that make up a clean collection like that of Atea’s and how reliable they are because no matter how they’re worn by whoever wears them, doesn’t affect your relationship with the garments.

Of course, though, that means absolutely nothing about the sort of woman who decides to wear the clothes.

[Shop Atea here.]

Olsens Identified

Written by Carlye Wisel

I want to be comfortable at all times, but not attainably so; just toeing the line between day five Burning Man attendee dreaming of a shower and a Comme des Garçon obsessive overpaying for daily bedsheets.

I want to “embalm myself in swathes of black fabric,” as so elegantly worded by a British newspaper rag.

I want the feet of my grandfather, cold and wide and ready to trek across a linoleum floor sans discomfort all at once.

I want a scarf so long that it could double as a wrap-it-your-own-way bridesmaid dress.

I want either the patience to wait in line at an outbound Starbucks prior to hopping in a vehicle heading towards home, or the deep sense of serenity that would allow me to drink a hot beverage prior to entering airport security and promptly depositing four dollars and fifty cents in frothed milk in the trash receptacle.

I want a purse that magically fits my laptop and all of my nonsense, because I’m so fancy that my bags are probably currently being flown individually to my destination in advance of my leaving, all so I don’t have to lift a satchel that isn’t made of crocodile skin.

I want sunglasses so large they cover the fact that I’m as pale as the day is long, even if I have the bone structure of a beautiful albino bird.

I want to wear so many layers of ebony and midnight blue that I feel like I rolled myself up in a taco of dark fleece that in turn looks like a casual, fantastic fashion statement.

And most importantly, I want to be followed by a ghost of myself, dressed the same from the Achilles tendon upwards, only with more foresight for sun protection.

Ah, that’s it.

Image via Ron Asadorian/Splash News

Flat Feet (In a Good Way)

Say you work at a law firm, right? And you plan to wear sun dresses all summer because even though they’re technically not in line with the dress code, they’re not really out of line either, and you need comfortable shoes that will successfully allow you to oscillate between your office building and the nearby deli for iced coffee and fresh fruit and wonders like a bagel with tofu cream cheese smeared across it plus cucumber and tomato — shoes that are also presentable and preferably not Birkenstocks — so what do you wear, right?

And suppose you want to make sure that if you’re going to spend enough money to conceivably call the purchase an investment, you can wear the shoes on weekends with denim cut-offs that are not particularly law firm appropriate but are absolutely mandatory should you wish to continue subscribing to the school of thought which mandates that thing about good luck and denim diapers, or conversely, you should be able to wear them while naked because if the extremity of the summer is anything like the extremity of the winter was, it is going to get hot, hot, hot, so what are you to wear, right?

Finally, figure you plan to spend the greater portion of your hazy days writing run-on sentences but absolutely believe that you need a solid pair of flat to mid-heel shoes in order to enhance the experience — what in the good name of all that is leather soled are you to wear?

Right?

Stop wondering! Just stop right now! Here is a definitive list (fine, slideshow) of comfort shoes, which are similar to comfort foods minus the caloric content but plus your wallet’s weight loss, to get you so ready for the season that lay ahead, it might actually just…get here.

Shoe credits in slideshow above

Pharrell Williams’ G I R L

Written by Jessica Schiffer

Pharrell Williams is really trying to recover from the misogyny accusations that were spurred by “Blurred Lines” with a loud and proud sense of supposed feminism. Nowhere is this more obvious than on his newest album, appropriately titled G I R L.

Pharrell could be called a musical wunderkind but when held up to his beats, his lyrics trend towards the stale and outdated. If you read some of his latest songs, you’ll be forgiven for wondering if they’re just the misplaced product of songwriters from a previous era. Women here still appear to be fetishized a bit too much, lacking strong voices and fully fleshed personalities. They exist to be conquered. Sure, soft-conquered, with a gentle kiss when compared to “Blurred Lines,” but conquered nonetheless.

I first listened to the album on a run — my favorite mode of album introduction. So, I waited patiently to be empowered, in a way similar to how I felt when I first sprinted to BEYONCÉ. But unfortunately, that moment never came, and by the time the album ended I had determined that a lot of what it shilled was decidedly counter-feminist.

I believe that his heart is in the right place, but like a lot of people, he just doesn’t seem to realize how deep-seated a gender stereotype is. In the opening song, “Marilyn Monroe,” Pharrell prides himself on appreciating an elusive “different girl.” That’s all he offers — leaving me to wonder whether he’s aware of what he wants.

Then there’s “Gush” which is dirty.

Singing about sex isn’t necessarily bad. Something I loved about BEYONCÉ was the performer’s willingness to sing about raunchy sex — it inflected a fresh point: that women love it, too, but “Gush” isn’t like that. It divorces a woman’s nether regions from her person and hones in on Pharell’s pride.

In what? Making, uh, “the pussy just gush.”

Well, I’ll be damned.

Frankly, all of the songs, even the admittedly catchy “It Girl,” are flawed along these close-but-no-cigar lines. One of the last tracks on the album, a sonically beautiful piece due largely to the vocals of Alicia Keys, comes closest to functioning as a female-centric anthem, as Keys sings, “No more acquiesce, standin up, with no stress / Will do, what I need, ‘til every woman on this earth is free.”

But Pharrell is still the leader there as he guides her in a way that presumes she’s not capable of the chronicled assertiveness without his blessing. And then in “Come Get It Bae,” he goes so far as to equate his masculinity with a woman’s “home,” singing, “Cause everything you need, you will only find in me.”

The big picture illustrated by the album is women as seen and comforted by Pharrell — adored, and distant creatures who are searching for a voice that, in the mean time, continues to be overshadowed by the misguided attention of the male gaze.

The Value of Investing in The Right Trench Coat

Once again, that’s: the value of investing in the right trench coat is chiefly about how well it can moonlight as several different coats. Metaphorically, this theory works fine — you should absolutely be able to watch your coat metamorphose from work appropriate to fitting for the nuances of recreational living and even to be convenient for the sake of dance-the-night-away-ing.

When it can literally be three different things though, which as fate would have it, the one photographed here can be, you’re actually at the hand of six different coats.

Why? Because the metaphor does not get lost on the facts.

So figure the above three looks as reasons to consider the break-away trench and allow me to expound.

Look #1: This is the trench coat in full motion, featuring what will become the vest and the cropped coat as worn over a set of white pseudo-intimates and paired with a fringe necklace, reflective lensed sunglasses and completely out-of-place, though decidedly befitting velvet sandals. This look seems to say, “I am going to Coachella in two weeks.” Should you prefer your look not to say that, I’d suggest forgoing the sunglasses and the necklace and instead carrying a brief case.

Jk about the brief case.

Look #2: Here, the trench coat finds itself reverse-guillotined and worn over an egg shell colored crop top from Zara that has seemingly time traveled from 1995. The combination of a) vintage Levi’s jeans and b) bona-fide mandals give the look an air of norm snore but I’d like to remind humanity that the concept of paradoxical and ironic under and overdressing predates the term that has recently become chained to it.

This look says, “I am a small coat, hear me roar.”

Look #3: Here’s the vest, which can also work as a dress, or a knee-length blouse as evidenced by the appropriated photos. Wear them with big white pants if you’d like, or a pair of culottes that say, “loins on fire” in that special dialect that only initiated women speak. Try a button up blouse + sleeves if you’d like or just approximate this because for a reason unbeknownst to me, I feel (incredulously) writerly and maybe you want to feel that way, too.

And that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Other than this:

Going Rogue on April Horoscopes

Get ready to bash your knees into coffee tables both literally and proverbially this month because Tricky Bitch is April’s middle name. Susan Miller predicted a shit-storm at the end of everyone’s March Horoscopes, and she’s already fulfilled her own prophecy by NOT PUTTING UP HOROSCOPES FOR THIS MONTH. Do you know what this means? I’m going to have to do it all by myself, without her help, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. You be the judge. Here goes nothing:

So Aries, you’re a cranky horned animal right? The LAries David  of the Zodiac world, if you will. Great, we’ll get along. Last month Suzaroo said you’re getting a new moon at the end of March which will be conjunct with Uranus, thus causing some major events that might be good or bad — 50/50 threats are fun! — but the episode will definitely be strange regardless. “With Uranus,” she concludes, “you never know which end is up.” Ain’t that the truth. Happy birthday!

Thanks a LOT, Lazy Susan, for your utter lack of sympathy toward Team Taurus‘ astrological profile this month. I really needed you today. We needed you. But since I like you, I’m going to assume that you’re working extra hard on next month’s ‘scopes since it’s all about The Bull for May. On behalf of all other Taurii, I’d like to request that you say only nice things and use the word “spectacular” a lot, and in the meantime let’s just assume that April is gonna rule for us.

Ge-minifridge, you had a “difficult new moon on March 30″ that may have involved “a lover, friend, or lover,” according to The Suz. Judging by the fact that she wrote “lover” twice, I’m going to go head and assume that you are dating a lot of people. And why shouldn’t you? She’s just jealous because you’re young and in love. Since I know nothing else about your sign I’m gonna go ahead and say that April looks divine but you may get some chin acne from making out a lot. That’s okay, it happens!

Alright Cancers, S&M left you with a little bit more info than the rest of us in March’s breakdown but it’s not all sunshine and ceviche. The beginning of April means a shake-up in your career life, and on April 15th an eclipse will affect your home and family but she encourages you to not take action until after May 19. You know what that means? Put up each one of your crab legs and chill the fuck out.

Leonardo DiCaprios, I didn’t feel like reading your thing from last month so let’s say that this April you’ll be looking finer than Seth Mosakowski. Just a real influx of great head-hair days with minimal regrowth in the regions you typically wax. This is because Venus is stalking you and Mercury’s napping and bla bla bla Susan please come back.

Disco InVirgo, don’t be mad but I didn’t read yours from March either. Let’s just say that Mars is going to come in like a wrecking ball with a little Miley Cyrus riding on top, but it’s a good thing, I promise, because this is our party and everyone loves that song. April is going to one big, white, flare-legged rhinestoned paint suit, so point your finger in the air and go John Travolta-akimbo.

You better beLibra I actually read your March H-scope…but it gave me nothing. So your sign’s a polar bear, right? You’re lucky because that’s the coolest kind of bear. Literally. All I got from last month’s Snoozy Suze-fest is that a new moon from March 30 means something will come up soon that you didn’t expect. But as Susan said, don’t worry about that which you can’t control, ”just open the window and see what flies in.” Unless you live in NYC, which means it will definitely be a pigeon.

Scorpion Bowls are very dangerous drinks to consume when you haven’t eaten during the day. They are common among tacky establishments with lots of nick-nacks on the wall, and are typically ordered at bachelorette parties and/or birthday celebrations. The alcoholic liquid is consumed via three-foot long straws by people in obnoxious pink boas, and once swallowed a lot of WOO-ING commences. I guess that’s not a horoscope so much as it is a definition but hey! Look over there! Pizza!

Well team Sagittarius, Drunk Aunt Suz put your April ‘scope in March’s, so here it is in full:

“Welcome to April – this new moon of March 20 will give you a preview of the hardest month of 2014. There are two eclipses due next month, one April 15, which will focus you on a friend (maybe the same one) and April 29, which will be about your work projects and health. This new moon will give you hints of what is to come. We are all in this together, so all we can do is open the window and see what flies in.”

Don’t shoot the messenger!!!!!!

Capricorn, why so forlorn? Are your shoes worn? Where’s your horn? (I’m so sorry guys. Susan will be back next month I swear.) In your March breakdown Suz hinted that you may be slightly less affected than everyone else this month by all the asshole eclipses, and therefor you’ll be put in the helper role. This will be just like when you got to be the helper in kindergarten, so wear your badge of honor proudly and remember that the rest of us NEED YOU! You’re the only one of us who knows how to spell!

QUICK, Aquarius! You’ve got Venus in your sector for exactly four more days, so make it count in the looks department. Need a haircut? Get it now. Want plastic surgery? You don’t need it, but if you insist make your appointment NOW. This is from your actual leftover March horoscope, so don’t make me say “I told you so” come May when you’re crying about the blowout that was too little too late.

SPisces Girls, you got an awful lot of attention last month because you just had a birthday, so I’m just going to completely make shit up for you this time. Saturn’s going to be two-stepping in your house of roofs-be-raised, meanwhile Jupiter ate too much cake during March so it doesn’t really feel like moving this April. Be the swimming pool that you know you can be, you ethereal water sign. And come May, I promise, you’ll find love in a hopeless place.

…How’d I do?

Left: Shot by Patrick Demarchelier, Vogue Paris Right: Shot by Chris Nicholls, Flare Magazine