Leandra Medine's Blog, page 751

From Man Getter to Man Repeller

Oh laaaaaaadies, it’s that time of year again!

You’ve seen me turn porn to prunes, sauce to suede, a bandaged skirt to an ostensibly bandaged weener but have you seen me try my hand at a mating call best described using not words but leather pants and a sheer, polka dot body suit topped off with crystal leopard print pumps?

I am practically the 17th Kardashian sister.

It occurred to me last weekend when I slipped into a white mini sheath dress and said to myself, self, I don’t think you need any accessories tonight but how about a pair of pumps that my perception of that which is man repelling has become hideously guised by the recent minimalist approach to dressing that I have unwittingly taken (can you believe I actually defended black a few weeks back? Why didn’t you say anything?) but no more. Layers shall prevail.

In celebration of the past and as a toast to the future, behold: The Renaissance. I can argue that the resuscitation of Man Getter to Repeller is a cultural movement too, can’t I? For your viewing (and thinking) pleasure, it should be.

What started as an outfit utilizing a bodysuit from Kate Young’s collaboration with Target and J Brand leather pants metamorphosed into what I can only imagine to be the librarian equivalent of a fashion week outfit. Jane Eyre, houndstooth, protective under layers and all. But how?

Quite simply by closely evening out the number of layers that would cloak the initial garments. Where I used a white Comme des Garçons blouse + rolled up sleeves to cover the bodysuit without actually covering it, so too did I try my luck with wearing a F/W 2011 Miu Miu peplum as, you know, a peplum.

Accessories continue to function at the brush strokes that paint an unidentifiable canvas which is where the Dannijo choker and rosary come into effect, chased with an Olympia Le Tan clutch and shoes from the same Miu Miu collection as the peplum. It ain’t fashion (sorry, fAsHuN) without a jacket over my shoulders so there’s that, too. Apple strudel.

Kate Young x Target bodysuit, J Brand leather pants, Casadei pumps, Comme des Garçons mens white shirt (and on sale!), Miu Miu peplum ($260 on Yoox), and open toe booties, Dannijo necklaces, Olympia Le Tan clutch (once more, ka-ching, on sale), Stella McCartney blazer.

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Empty stockings were Instagrammed, to give all a gist

that I hoped for a lot from my Christmas Wish List.

After sending a selfie of me in my bed

to my friends who could see what I’d drawn on my head,

(it was one of those elf hats, a festive striped cap),

I snuggled on down for a long sleepy nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise –

had my egg nog flavored milkshake finally brought on the boys?

Away to the window I flew like Beyoncé,

“HOLY BANANAS!” I shouted. (Well, what would you say?)

Before my own eyes was the craziest thing,

straight out of a movie’s most magical scene.

I threw on pajamas and ran down to see

eight fashion reindeer — you have to believe me.

And guess who was with them? The Big Man On Campus

in a red velvet blazer, same color sneakers in canvas.

It was Santa! Ho ho! With a white beard and mane.

He smiled and began calling each reindeer by name.

“Now, Fendi! Marc Jacobs! Jil Sander and Prada!

On, Céline! On, Chloé! on, on Dolce and Gabbana!

To the top of the fire escape, up to the wall!

Now dash away! Flash away! Dash away all!”

So up to the top of my apartment they flew

With the sleigh full of Proenza, and Marni too.

There were so many shoes: flat, mid-heel and high,

and I know it’s cliché but I thought I might die.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and dancing of each sparkly hoof.

As I pulled in my head, quickly spinning around,

down the chimney Santa came with a fashionable bound.

He was dressed, as I mentioned, in a red blazer,

red hat on his head, he looked sharp as a razor.

A bundle of gifts he then flung on his knee,

Could all of those presents be meant for just me?

A bracelet with beads, and one clustered with crystal,

a bra by La Perla straight up made me whistle.

A unicorn necklace, this button down dress,

I was getting so much but I had to confess:

I’d been hoping to get some things for my home,

Like this strange golden robot, or was it a gnome?

And a print-blocked plate, and a Missoni pillow,

but just like Santa says, it’s Christmas and YOLO.

Oh I am not selfish, just so that you’re aware,

I got this green paisley scarf for my mom to wear.

For my best friend, this crown, for my cousin, this bag.

Santa brought it all. Had I a tail, it would wag.

I watched him in awe of how fast he could work,

He filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

He gave me a tap on the top of my nose,

Then called to his deer and up the chimney he rose!

He let out a whistle as he jumped in his sleigh,

flying into the air like models on a winter runway.

Then I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Happy shopping to all, and to all a good-night!”

-By Amelia Diamond and Leandra Medine. Based off the poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore. Illustration and slides by Charlotte Fassler. 

Part 1 of 1 in a collaboration with Yoox.com; byte into Italian Style this Holiday Season. 

Playing Devil’s Advocate re This Morning’s Post

Hi, so has Leandra actually been on Tinder? (Other than the 40 minutes where she conducted a highly scientific anthropological study.) Because in this morning’s post where she posed the question, What is harder to find? The perfect man, or the perfect jeans?, her conclusion was that while “perfect” is subjective in regards to both, there’s no dating app for denim, and therefore the apex of jeanswear is much harder to find. But she’s wrong. Locating the perfect man is significantly harder.

Before I go further allow me to qualify my own argument with two points of note:

1) I am not personally looking to find the holy grail of male-as-mate at this juncture in my life. I’m merely trying to prove the point that if one were on the search for both denim and lifelong romance, a quintessential indigo pant would manifest itself much sooner.

2) Finding the perfect jeans are far more important.

As a proud member of the 5’3″ Can-You-Reach-That-Shelf-For-Me-Club, I’ve been on the hunt for ideal denim before. Pants, as a community, have a reputation for fitting and hanging better on those who are tall. But it’s not as though the perfect jeans don’t exist (no matter your height), because I’ve clicked through enough e-retailers and browsed enough stores to know that actually, there are about a million pairs of blue that I’d like to be associated with on a personal level. I can sort my jean-search by wash, size, price, and designer, and then all I have to do is add them to my shopping cart. Sounds far more lucrative than Tinder — or any bar/set up/dating site/rodeo to me.

This whole “perfect man” thing, however… let’s unpack it. We’ve already agreed that the idea of human utopia is subjective. It’s also highly flawed when considering that we, as a species, are also flawed. A man can’t technically be perfect no matter how nice his hair is or how spot-on his sarcasm is. Said funny guy (with the really good manners!) could, for all intents and purposes, also be a serial killer.

But most men don’t harvest a blood thirsty secret that could eventually inspire Lifetime to create a made-for-TV movie about their murdering ways. Most men are just trying to get through life without offending someone by way of an accidentally awkward text or without pissing off their boss. They’re trying to make sure that they wore the right tie or said the right thing just as much as we stress out over our own outfits and conversations.

I’m not calling myself an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a 25-year-old woman who goes on dates and this much I’ve gathered: it takes about an awful lot more hours to sift through the weirdos, creeps, the assholes, the flings, than it does to go on to Net-A-Porter for a good pair of pants.

At the end of the day, when it comes to both the ideal jeans and the right guy, when you know, you know. But, as one of you pointed out earlier, the beauty of denim is that it’s not considered cheating when you own more than one pair.

And that’s kind of perfect.

The Perfect Man or Perfect Jeans?

Flannery O’Connor was right. A good man is hard to find but arguably more difficult could be the ineffectual result of what seems like every woman’s interminable search for the perfect pair of jeans. If we were to compare the two, what would you deem more difficult, more important, more gratifying to find after beginning a final descent toward the finish line?

I’m inquiring because I believe I have located the man and frankly, it wasn’t that difficult. We fell into each other’s laps at the hand of an inappropriately marketed Halloween party for Jews and though the six year interim between meeting and marrying was chock full of consternation I am sure has shaved valuable years off my life, the actual meeting was, all things considered, pretty easy.

Some days, I think I found the perfect jeans, too. (For visual reference, one pair is black denim, high waist and ankle length because I cut them — by Acne. Another pair is hip hugging, light wash, ripped and by Paige. I think a third pair is white, flare leg and trouser-y but now I might be pushing it). The problem here is that simply by virtue of the previous clause being prefaced by “some days” and the inherent uncertainly tethered to a verb like “may,” it’s hard to declare the indelibility of that statement with conviction. So, which one is it?

Jeans.

Man.

Jeans?

Man?

Here’s where I stand. Jeans are not like soul mates, which are like cookies (as evidenced by the self-scribed Soul Seeking Mate), in that when you’re looking for them, you don’t want variety. You don’t want a pair that can weather your favorite cropped white twill blouse but render completely useless when considering a flannel plaid shirt. Conversely, you also don’t want a pair that will put a shining light on the latter if it means futility when considering the former. You want a cake. A single, definitive flavor that will never fail you. And why won’t it fail you? Because it is reliable. It is exactly what you ordered and as such, maintains the ability to unflinchingly stay on the positive side of the radar that informs your calibration of moods.

Men are not all that different. The chief distinction here is that you want them to evince the spirit of cookies, or an all-you-can-eat buffet without compromising the most important attribute of your cake — that it’s there, that it’s one, that it will allow you to be its singular owner forever and always should you so please.

But when considering the state of perfect, subjectivity is obviously a key factor. So what’s perfect for me might be miserable for you but I’m going to take a leap of unwarranted faith here and declare that until this point, finding the all-encompassing pair of perfect jeans has been as fruitless an endeavor as Michael Cera’s trying to grow a mustache. Of course, that is subject to change, the problem is that as one Twitter follower so astutely pointed one when the question was initially posited: there’s no Tinder for denim.

So, which one is it?

MR Music Profile: The Naked and Famous

At Man Repeller, we find ourselves complaining that we need new music almost as often as we declare we have nothing to wear. So, we’ve decided to try and get to know the people behind the songs we discover that make us wanna dance. First up is Alisa Xayalith of The Naked and Famous as scribed by Jamie Lincoln. Do let us know what you think.

“I’m in the middle of doing something completely unglamorous. I’m hand-washing my underwear in a basin.” 

Lead singer of The Naked and Famous, Alisa Xayalith has no problem breaking the ice. The only female in a five-member band, the “Hearts Like Ours” songstress is no stranger to doing her thing (hand-washing underwear notwithstanding) amid a sea of testosterone. Having grown up with three brothers, the New Zealand native, Los Angeles convert actually feels a degree of familiarity and comfort in boys-only territory.

“Of course there are those days where I feel like an absolute lunatic and emotionally charged and the guys just look at me like I’m crazy. But actually, if I speak to another female they’ll completely validate me and make me realize that it’s okay.”

Following their wildly successful 2010 debut album, Passive Me, Aggressive You featuring the hit indie electro single “Young Blood,” Xayalith and fellow bandmates Thom Powers, Aaron Short, Jesse Wood and David Beadle have been promoting their sophomore album, In Rolling Waves, across Europe and come January, throughout New Zealand and Australia. The nomadic touring lifestyle would be a packing light obstacle course for most, but no matter for Xayalith, who cites her style as streamlined and minimalist. When it comes to readying herself for a performance, her untrammeled perception of exoteric self and style champions all else. Says the perpetually red lipped, John Lennon-as-evidenced-by-her-shades reincarnate: “I never let anybody override me that way.”

But she’s not too concerned with keeping up appearances either. “In Los Angeles, people can be so image-conscious and so caught up in reality TV and caught up in pop culture, but in New Zealand that just does not exist … at all. If somebody famous was walking down the street, there would be no mob of people, no paparazzi. It’s just like, whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

“When we’re doing shows,” she said of her on-stage persona, “I wear the music that we’ve made and I wear the songs that we have like armor. It just makes me feel so empowered to be singing something that I’ve written to a huge audience. It’s really electric to experience something like that.”

As for the music, you may be familiar with this one…

And from the band’s most recent album:

FAST FACTS WITH ALISA XAYALITH:

Number of selfies taken in your lifetime: 20 … maybe 20.

Number of sheep you’ve seen in New Zealand: Definitely not a million. I reckon I’ve seen like, a thousand sheep.

Favorite designer in the U.S.: Pamela Love, her jewelry is awesome.

Favorite staple item in your closet: My Helmut Lang jacket.

Personal style in one word: Minimal … and chic.

Favorite app: Tinder!

Yay or Nay on Miley Cyrus: Nay

How’s that for a Music Monday renaissance?

– Interviewed and written by Jamie Lincoln,  Images courtesy of The Naked and Famous

Because It’s Monday

When I get to work on Monday mornings, I look for two things. The first is almond milk. I have recently decided to forgo dairy consumption and my stomach is effusively grateful.

The second is a smoke signal. One that outlines hope. I’ll take any indication that will manifest as it pleases —  I don’t care how: temporarily impair my eyesight if you have t0 — that this week is going to be a good one.

The one right in front of us in particular holsters a boxcar full of profound anxiety because Susan Miller all but laughed in my face last week when I clicked into Astrology Zone and thought, okay, Suzy, let’s make this a good one! Evidently, it will not be a good one. I’m paraphrasing the following but she basically told me I’m better off peeling my nails from their beds than continuing on this trajectory called Leandra’s life, which, by the way, I will have no control over. None! At all!

Also of note: Venus is to blame for my imminent demise. But I digress.

I found almond milk but I’m still seeking the signal. In the past, it has appeared as quality Internet fodder. Sometimes it’s Buzzfeed showing me weird under water critters who also know how to juggle and fill out 1099 forms. Other times, it’s a very robust helping of personal style which, as far as I’m concerned is the most accurate euphemism for a Monday morning brain massage when considering she (or he!) who loves fashion.

I haven’t found mine yet but in a deeply humble effort to help you find yours, here’s an outfit I wore last week, shot last week, haven’t taken off since last week to get Monday morning’s ball sack rolling with the homies. There are so many matings to be had with just a measly denim jacket and the tuxedo blazer that cloaks it. Reverse it, take one off, take both off, tie one around waist, wrap one around your shoulder. Oysters.

The shoes are Céline (now at least — they were Steve Madden when I first got them in 2001) and them jeans are Acne. I appreciate the nature of their high waist demeanor because sometimes after a big ass lunch, I look like a metropolitan kangaroo, harboring life with my lower stomach.

Other days I just feel like an acrobat –

But in the grand scheme of things, that is always, like even the longest Monday, very short-lived.

Isabel Marant x H&M blazer, Acne jacket and jeans, Valentino clutch, Celine platforms and Khai Khai rings.

Models in Markets

Let’s take a page from the book of one Sir William Smith and chill out, max out, relax all cool. I most certainly will not, however, be shootin’ any “b-ball” outside of the school. That’s because I have a gigantic headache thanks to last night’s adventures and surely you do too.

Maybe you don’t have a headache though. Maybe you nourished your body on Friday, got the recommended hours of sleep, and possibly even woke up to the natural light in your bedroom, yawning and stretching in that happy “Good Morning!” way that I’m convinced no one actually does.

But let’s be real — you still don’t want get out of bed. None of us do. Instead of the floor being lava, pretend it’s an ice rink (and if you come over to my apartment you won’t have to pretend! My floor is cold as ice! Literal ice and not the Foreigner song!). Keep your feet tucked into the covers, snuggle your butt down and click through with us as we look at gorgeous, beautiful models in stunning clothes just sort of…doing things. Some of them are grocery shopping in ball gowns, some of them are doing laundry in couture, some are churning butter and some are hanging out of cars. Sure they look perfect whereas you might have last night’s mascara panda beared on your eyes, but guess who wins?

You, sleeping beauty. Because you’re still in bed.

Before you begin a-clickin’, however, how about a little music for atmosphere? In a previous Cogitation we asked you guys, “What song did you forget about, then remembered, and now love again?” They all sparked some serious nostalgia, but when a commenter by the mysterious moniker of Jena suggested “It’s Real” by Real Estate, we said, “You know what work week? It has been real.”

Then we dropped the mic and went home.

See you guys Monday! (Oh! And more song suggestions are always welcome.)

Earrings Are My New Thing

Earrings are my new thing. I told Leandra so last winter after an inspired bout of high-pony-dangly-earring magic and possibly two margaritas. They had the same sort of effect that a great blush had, or a blowout, in that I felt pretty and “done up” even though I hadn’t washed my hair in lord knows how many days.

I’d borrowed the muses behind my new revelation from a friend — a real shoulder dusting pair of silver Oscar de la Renta tassels almost exactly like these, and they swished when I walked and sort of hummed while I talked. Each bead seemed to glimmer individually, working with its colleagues above and below to create subtle bursts of understated sparkle every time I turned my head, commanding attention without being obnoxious, which is the ideal way to enter a party in general, isn’t it?

But that’s just the thing. I didn’t feel like I had to reserve them for a party. I didn’t want my new favorite accessories to sit like ancient gems beneath glass casing at a museum because they were too precious to re-wear, or wait like forgotten kids after soccer practice, dejected on my vanity until I finally decided I’d found an event worthy of re-attaching them to my lobes. They were loaned, after all, so our time together would only last as long as my friend’s memory evaded her. I wore them everywhere.

Until she remembered and asked for them back.

Parting was such sweet sorrow until I realized that when a door closes, a spaceship takes off. My ears, previously accustomed to their naked life on a nudist colony, now craved the weight and personality of that which had just recently adorned them. Because I am a giver and not a taker I set off on a mission to bulk up my collection of all things earrings.

First I went a little dangle-crazy. I couldn’t get over how big, giant earrings made an entire outfit for me. All I needed was a white tee and something to cover my bottom half and I was essentially good to go. Besides, they felt glamorous and self-indulgent in the same way an oversized cashmere blanket might…minus the price of most oversized cashmere blankets. Were they necessary? No. But that was half the fun.

Next I realized that perhaps not every occasion called for door-knocking contraptions. There was a half-way option, like the earring’s answer to a mid-heel shoe. These, I felt, could be worn in a more quiet manner. It didn’t feel like I was hitting anyone over the head with my accessories but rather allowing bits of color to poke out and wave hello. “Nice to meet you,” they’d say.

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Once I was on the peaceful come-down of my manic obsession I began to appreciate that which barely winked, let alone wave: teeny tiny studs, pinky-nail sized cuffs and delicate chains that looped just below the lobe. It felt like an inside joke with myself to wear two separate posts in each ears — with this tiny size I could mix and match without looking like an 80s glam rock musician. They were also a way to make all the cable knit sweaters I still insist on wearing a whole lot more cool.

And what about you? What’s your story with earrings? Should I get more piercings? How many do you have? (Piercings, that is…though I guess you could also count the number of earrings you own!) Go at it in the comments and for goodness sake, show me your ears!

Hairy Styles: Joe Dirt Edition

Hair is not unlike an avocado (which, as you know, is not unlike a man ready to commit) chiefly because like the fruit, it is only good for a fraction of a second (volume! texture! waves!) before it turns against you. Say you’re two days past a blowout and you’ve got that leftover film of hairspray creating a halo around your head and just enough volume to feel Texan, hold the cowboy boots. You could shower. In fact you probably should shower but time is tight and your hair — while starting to absorb odors more astutely than a pregnant woman does — looks awesome. But if you miscalculate by even just an hour, grease lightening could hit you faster than…er…lightening and there you are, stuck at a bar with smelly ass, oily hair.

Enter the greatest gift of modern science: dry shampoo. The supposition is that with it, you can successfully extend your number of good hair days without actually having to wash or manipulate it via hat/braid/ponytail/kangaroo pouch. But at last, that is just merely a supposition, which is precisely why Team Man Repeller forewent a week of hygiene in the name of a social experiment that would refute or support the notion the idea that dry shampoo, like your best friend, is always there for you during — and after — a rough patch. Ready, Freddy?

Amelia

Day 1: I have nothing to report because I did my due diligence to society this AM and took a shower. After a quick blast with the blow dryer to ensure maximum dryness for a week of no-washing, I was on my merry way, flipping my hair like a happy fool.

Day 2: Day 2 of not washing my hair meant day 1 of using dry shampoo. My application was preemptive as I didn’t actually need it yet, but it gave me a ton of volume so I was like, bonus pointtt.

Day 3: Wednesday involved a lot of me shit talking about how my hair still felt weirdly clean (thank you dry shamps!), and how it looked even better by day 3, and how much I looked like Connie Britton, yadda yadda. Just a whole lot of flappin gums and more flippin hair. Oh Amelia, if only Susan Miller had predicted what was to come…

Day 4: This was not a fun day. I probably should have tapped out but my competitive edge got the best of me and I powered through, hair down, and reapplied the spray-in powder at least three times throughout the day. Weirdly, though, I met up with friends in a public and well-lit establishment and no one gave me side-eyed please-go-gome-you’re-gross-looks.

Day 5: Hubris got the best me. I should have thrown in the towel or rather, washed my hair and then used the towel, but I soldiered through by way of a very high pony tail. Leandra and Charlotte told me that hair up was breaking the rules and therefore I “lost,” so I was just like, screw you guys, I’m going home.

Status: Last place. Product used: Klorane Oat Extract Dry Shampoo

Leandra

Day 1: Well la di da, I am the fucking starlet of a Pantene Pro-V commercial. I can barely tilt my head without experiencing my hair release the sweet, sweet melodic chants of that one Taylor Swift song that has been universally accepted as awesome. Which one, you ask? I can’t answer. But it does exist — they do exist! Also, I smell really nice which is a rarity but one I welcome with open arms.

Day 2: So, I did this weird thing this morning where I said to myself, “Self, why don’t you use your gym membership just one time before 2013′s finale?” Before I could answer and allow an internal, unilateral quarrel to materialize, there I was, feet moving quickly — right then left, right then left on a treadmill. When I get off I smelled a little bit like the backseat of a taxi right after its driver’s tango with Indian cuisine. I was feeling like a pimp though, so I just brushed my shoulder off (aka slabbed deodorant on) and off to work I went. My hair looked fine. It still looks fine. No dry shampoo yet. I am a woman, hear me roar.

Day 3: So this is what sweaty, stale hair smells like! Very nice. Though I’m fashioning an olfactory hazard around my head, I declare with conviction that it still don’t look too shabby. If you don’t believe me, I invite you to take a look at slideshow image #2, where I am wearing a black sweater and authentic smile. It’s not the cleanest, but it’s not the dirtiest. Avocado status. I used only three sprays of dry shampoo today.

Day 4: I can’t do this. Where yesterday I felt like the queen of Sheba, today I am pretty sure I look like I showered in olive oil last night. Is it even possible that the dry shampoo made my hair dirtier? This morning, I sprayed that shit into every crevice in my head and yet, I look like a slice of pizza. Not to mention I now smell like the three day old version of the backseat of that cab — ironically everywhere but on my head. Because my dry shampoo smells so damn good. I know the rules stated that we were not to wash our hair but guess what? I went the full nine yards and haven’t showered either. We can still be friends, right?

Day 5: Haha. Ho. Ho. Ho. Guess what? I am the hugest fucking moron in the history of dumb people. Why? Because I wasn’t using dry shampoo! I was using styling powder! And while sure, it worked famously as powder, (I will say, I did notice that my hair was cooperating much more like a highly obedient golden retriever and less like a tap dancer who has gone rogue) my hair was looking much more like a used and reused, perpetually damp mop than it should have.

How did I find out? Because I was on a shoot last night and the hair stylist who was forced to manipulate my head pointed out that I’d been using a styling product not a dry shampoo. Like a fairy sent from the gods of flocculence, she spray, spray, sprayed and I’m happy to report, as evidenced by the photos in slide 9 and 10, I look more French than a freakin’ croissant, can I get a oui oui?

Products used: Initially Bumble and bumble. Pret-a-Powder but then Serge Normant‘s magical dry shampoo.

Charlotte

I’m not going to bore you with the day-to-day maintenance of my dry-ass hair.  Texturally it closely mirrors a wire-haired dachshund who frolicked through some humid beach sand and then brushed itself with a brillo pad. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic here, but it truly takes a lot to grease up my hair. Not washing my hair for a week is my norm and typically I’ll cake some Moroccan oil onto it and add a bit of curl in an attempt to make it dirty faster. This week I refrained from using product and by mid-week my hair seemed inexplicably dryer. So, I went to the gym and sweat it out, but alas the sweat added volume but also produced a stench. Amelia kindly suggested I jump on the dry shampoo bandwagon and use TRESemme Fresh Start which kept me going for 3 more days! That’s right, I didn’t wash my hair for 8 days! It was a fucking Hanukkah miracle! Can I get a sassy emoji girl hand in the air?

The Wonder Ears

Oh, sure. We’re pretty fond of each other, but the truth is you all are our favorite contributors to The Man Repeller. Really! We’ve formalized that fact with “Let’s Talk About It.” This weekly column is a forum for conversation, communication, and complete distraction from the jobs you’re supposed to be doing right now. So get involved. We promise we won’t tell your bosses.

I have Reese Witherspoon to thank for properly introducing me to the Playboy Bunny.

Technically, the movie that witnessed her dressed as one premiered in 2001. But who can remember the specifics of that first broadcast? Not me! Given that I’ve now spent somewhere in the vicinity of several days of my life reliving it, the details of such an auspicious viewing have since gone slightly fuzzy. Like Clueless and 10 Things I Hate About You and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles before it, Legally Blonde endeared itself to me instantly. It chronicled an engaging story, defended sequins as daywear, and justified its heroine’s near-encyclopedic knowledge of hair care. (An innocent woman’s acquittal depended on it!) Also, it briefly paraded its protagonist around Harvard’s campus in a pink, satin leotard.

In the unlikely event that you do not want to relive this timeless cinematic moment care of a short video shared by YouTube user “playboybunnybabes,” allow me to summarize the incident. In a misguided attempt to befriend Vivian Kensington and her anonymous, vaguely insufferable sidekick, first-year law student Elle Woods attends a gathering of fellow grads wearing a baby blush corset, fuchsia tights, and floppy ears. Pinned to her ass, a fluffy pom-pom completes the look.

Inside “45 Dunston Street,” not a single other person has dressed in costume. An only marginally more tolerable version of arriving at school in your underwear, the scene remains as deeply mortifying to me now as it did over a decade ago. It may have prompted her to “show you how valuable Elle Woods can be,” but I still cringe at the spectacle of Witherspoon attempting to assert herself as a bright-eyed and literally bushy-tailed blonde. “What is she wearing?” I remember exclaiming in horror. As far as I was concerned, the outfit’s exploitative undertones were the least of its problems. More damning even than its implicit sexism was its essential pitifulness. “She looks so pathetic!” I wailed. I ask you: does any ensemble try so hard as a Playboy Bunny’s?

Take a second to remember the girl who wore one to your last Halloween party.

Exactly.

Still, the fact that we agree (we agree, don’t we?) does little to account for the images of Kate Moss that debuted earlier this week. Fronting the 60th anniversary edition of Playboy magazine, the supermodel graces Playboy’s December/January 2014 cover in a midnight black bustier, Saint Laurent pumps, and, of course, a pair of velveteen ears. The same appendages reappear throughout the accompanying eighteen-page spread which finds Moss lounging on brocade sofas, reclining in sheer thigh-highs, and implicitly reminding us just how much pie we all consumed at Thanksgiving dinner. In other words, Moss oozes her usual brand of good-old-fashioned sex appeal.

But not even the lethal combination of her hypnotic gaze, chiseled cheekbones, and imminent fortieth birthday can separate these photographs from their form. The abundance of silk bed sheets does not lie. This is Playboy.

Moss’s body is a wonderland and her evident confidence is impressive. Perhaps if I looked that good in French cuffs, I, too, would wear them to the exclusion of all else. And yet I can’t quite shake the feeling that Kate Moss is — as Elle Woods once was —dressed for the wrong party, and also for the wrong magazine. How would our opinions differ had this been not the cover of Playboy but instead of, say, French Vogue? Is this just a loose case of blinded by the label? Or am I simply not the target consumer?

After all, I read Playboy for the articles. What do you think? View the full (NSFW) spread here and let’s talk about it.

Images from the Playboy 60th Anniversary Issue, shot by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott