Leandra Medine's Blog, page 752

‘Tis the Season

Well? Now that we’ve told you, we must know too: what’s the best (and if you’re feeling particularly chatty, worst, too) holiday gift you’ve ever received? Tell. Me. Right. Now. Young. Lady. (Do I sound like your mom?)

Leandra and Amelia wear Max Mara Resort 2014 collection, available at Max Mara boutiques nationwide. Max Mara Sunglasses shown throughout. Video shot by Naomi Shon…she’s baaaaaack.

Part 1 of 1 in collaboration with Max Mara.

All I Want For Christmas

I’ve encountered exactly two moments in my life that have reaffirmed my faith in humanity, and both involved music. Once was on the 1 train going an embarrassing two stops from West 4th and Christopher to Varick and Canal. It was a grumpy, rainy Monday and my hair was not cooperating.

A man who got on at the same stop as I did walked to the center of the car and cleared his throat. For quotidian public transportation takers, this almost always elicits 1) rolling eyes from passengers and 2) a reason to turn up the volume on our iPods.

Instead, however, the man began singing “Hey Jude” by the Beatles. “Hey Jude,” he started softly. “Don’t be afraid,” he continued. And by the Canal Street stop, he hit the resounding “Naaa, na, na, na na na na, na na na na,” to which the entire car finished “He-ey Jude.” My entire week was made and I promised myself I’d write that story down at some point.

The second time, I was at a bar. It was the summer and about eight billion of my friends (I am very popular) had crammed into a space that should have legally only allowed 15 to 20 bodies. Everyone was hot and shouting about their empty glasses, revving up to fight in frustration but then, either by happy accident or a mid-July miracle, Mariah Carey’s unseasonal “All I Want for Christmas Is You” came on the loud speaker.

And you know what? The entire — ENTIRE — bar erupted into a sing along.

I swear this song could be the answer to world peace. Not since hopscotch or ice cream has something been able to so effortlessly transcend the bounds of gender, socioeconomics, religion and football rivalries as The holiday classic. Its opening notes tinkle and sparkle like elfin smiles, then crescendo as Saint Mariah’s alto joins the festive chorus.

One can’t help but snap in tandem with the beat, bob side to side and attempt to match her high pitched chord riffs and wailing mezzo. It’s physically impossible not to hold a fake microphone in one’s hand and wave the other to and fro, offering the “mic” (either invisible or in the form of a hairbrush or beer bottle) to your nearest neighbor, and I dare you not to point at your friends or strangers or bar tender each time Mariah declares that all she wants for Christmas is “you.” (“Oooh, baby!”)

That’s the other thing, too. We all know the lyrics. It’s a phenomenon that the words have become ingrained in our memories before we were even to realize it. It’s part of our blood; instinctual and intrinsic for the sake of not survival, but happiness. There’s only one line the general public tends to mumble over.

After “I don’t need to hang my stocking,” most forget that “here upon the fire place” comes next and uses it as an opportunity to ad lib or take a sip of egg nog. But that’s the beauty of the song, isn’t it? That since no one really has that part down, everyone remains in unison. See? World peace.

And it never gets old. The song could play on repeat five times, or interspersed throughout the night or, as in the aforementioned case, during off season. It’s universally assumed that no matter the circumstance, we love this song.

“I hate this song,” says no one ever. Except that contrarian who plays opposite for the sake of being a dickhead.

Mariah Carey’s career has seesawed but she’s never not been considered the reigning prima donna when it comes to audibly delightful vocal chords. In fact, it’s been rumored that when it rains, it’s because the sky has Mariah Carey’s Greatest Hits on repeat, (probably with a little Whitney thrown in there, let’s be real).

But this song is her ultimate coup. A piece de resistance that will forever solidify her in a category among such vanguards as Mr. Michael Angelo and his chapel, which, I suppose by osmosis, makes us her apostles of song, placed on this planet to exhault not her name or her most recent television appearance, but the general message of love that she’s taught us to sing.

I don’t want a lot for Christmas / There is just one thing I need / I don’t care about the presents / Underneath the Christmas tree / I just want you for my own / More than you could ever know / Make my wish come true / All I want for Christmas…..

Is shoessss!

Jk, it’s you.

Image shot by Ellen von Unwerth

Ode to Neck Scarves

Until four months ago, when I thought neck scarves, I thought three finite things.

#1. The Girl With The Red Ribbon. How the hell has it only recently occurred to me that the fact that my mother read me The Girl with The Red Ribbon nearly nightly for the duration of my tenure as a six-year-old was not in the least bit disquieting. When I think back, in fact, to the story that elicits a brand of nostalgia no scent has successfully been able to evince, I remember thinking: cool. I want a red ribbon.

(For the uninitiated the anterior story trails the life of a girl who becomes a woman who wears a red ribbon around her neck. She never takes it off, not even to shower and during the penultimate scene of the story we learn why: because it cords her neck to her head. When she removes it, which she does during the finale, her heads rolls right off her neck and bam! That’s that.

#2. Isadora Duncan. The aforestated was an American dancer. She loved flowing scarves. Enough, in fact, to die for them. Which she did, tragically, at a tender 50 years old while driving through Nice in the South of France. Her neck scarf got wrapped around the wheels of the Amilcar in which she was a passenger thus breaking her neck and terminating her life.

I think you see where I’m going with this.

Still, here is #3: The movie Grease and more precisely: The Pink Ladies. Those women do nothing for me emotionally or stylistically and therefore, to bring this back to four months ago, has until now, rendered neck scarves a moot point.

The thing is, I noticed at some point last year that my friend Rosie, who has historically eschewed jewelry wearing based solely on the pretense that she is a master of losing things, was wearing bandanas around her neck.

I observed in equal parts admiration and confoundment while she would slip into a t-shirt, a suit and then to top herself off tie that red, or green, sometimes yellow archetypal bandana around her neck. Though she closed them in the front to create the illusion of an ascot, she explained to me that they were her answer to necklaces. I really liked that. Then last season during Fashion Week, there they were — festooning necks at Marc by Marc Jacobs, Creatures of the Wind, Prabal Gurung and so forth.

Considering the choker-trip I’ve been on since the 90s first surprised us with its renaissance, I thought maybe settling on a fabric one, a la Rosie, might work for me too. Encased here, you’ll find three different looks using yours truly to fashion three different scarves in what I really want to call a testament to soft jewelry.

Exhibit A features a Peter Pilotto scarf wrapped three times around my neck with my hair tucked into it. Along with the wooden clutch, it’s supposed to offset the highly casual nature of this quotidian outfit and make the mundane feel a bit more spectacula. I did not accidentally omit that “r.”  (Trench coat by Mina and Olya, t-shirt by Isabel Marant, skirt by Zara, sneakers by Golden Goose and clutch by Devi Kroell.

Exhibit B is obviously all about pretending I am French, discernibly using the scarf as a choker to balance the striped shirt, which features a low neckline, and a pair of high waist white pants. I suppose as Amber never said, I could be a sailor on those clothes. (Scarf by Hermes, clutch by Edie Parker, t-shirt by Zara, pants by Etoile Isabel Marant).

Finally, exhibit C seemingly became about resurrecting Katharine Hepburn. Of course, I could never do justice to the actress but a girl can try. So try, I shall. (Plaid shirt by Club Monaco, pants by McQ by Alexander McQueen, heels by Christian Louboutin, neck scarf by Dolce and Gabbana and sunglasses by Oliver Peoples).

The most important question still remains: will you be test-driving this trend? Hmm? WILL YOU?

The Great Debate: Flats vs. Heels

My mom used to have these violet leather pointy heels that came with a bow on top. They looked like something Jackie O would have worn if she were emulating Betty Boop. That’s how I remember them, at least, now looking through the lens of my five-year-old self.

Fast forward a decade to high school where, maybe keeping in mind the shoes I loved that were my moms, I went through a strict heels-only phase. I probably wanted to look taller, or more fashionable. (Naturally, I achieved neither.) With a dress code that restricted me to khakis and polos, I suppose the only way to claim that I was, in fact, stylish was to flaunt my initiation using footwear.

The problem was, attending school in an urban city meant crossing streets between two campuses and climbing up giant, steep hills on my way home. Or riding public transportation and therefore flinging around like an idiot every time the bus stopped short. Falling on strangers’ laps by accident was an awkward, near daily routine, but for some reason my determination to wear heels held strong in spite of the mentioned perils.

Once I reached college — and I do hope you’re enjoying the outline of life’s trajectory via footwear — it was practically a sin to not wear heels out. I shuffled to class each day in sheepskin-lined boots, but come night fall and a house party I grew 5 inches taller faster than Tyson Chandler must have as a pubescent boy.

Next came my transition to the City. During the early stages of my foray into becoming a New Yorker, YSL Tributes were Everything with a capital, snappy E. They were actually also literally everything because I don’t think you could have found a single-sole shoe at the time even if you’d tried. In a city of models, neck deep in an industry like fashion and amidst a suspiciously tall general public, high heels acted as my main source of confidence. I felt stark nude without them.

But then, a few years after settling into the metropolis that boasted humans high as sky scrapers, my 5’3 frame suddenly didn’t feel so short. Maybe designers were finally sending shoes down the runway that didn’t represent some sort of toolshed weaponry, or perhaps I’d hit that happy, I-don’t-give-a-shit spot. Which isn’t to say I grew lazy, I was just…a New Yorker now. Loafers and thick soled creepers started to feel much cooler. Ballet flats, when done right, added just the right exclamation point to an otherwise masculine outfit, and mandals, well, you know how this one goes.

Chalk it up to my growing bunions or the fact that one half of fashion’s mixed signals are resonating particularly well with me. Where one magazine might tell me that this spring is “All About Pumps,” another muses that “The Flat is Back!” So which is it? Why can’t it be both? Surely our feet would prefer that we stick to one single height at a time, lest we begin to limp like one-legged toads, but can’t our closets assume enough room (in their hypothetical hearts, that is) to cradle the likes of both — heels and flats?

Or should we just cut the Kumbaya crap and pick only one? Pretend this is camp, and you’ve gotta choose a team. Which will it be? Flats or heels? Go!

The Joy of the Find

I’ve always wanted to be a crazy hat lady which is different from a cat lady in that she maintains several large, theatrical hats as opposed to, you know, live domestic animals. This hankering of mine has only been fine-tuned by my inability to invest hard dollars in a good hat. I’ll try it on, fall in love with it and then decide, really? I’m going to spend [insert dollar amount here] on a hat?

So, inevitably, I’ll put it down and when I do that, I’ll have to wonder what would have been. Weeks later, I’ll have changed my mind and frantically, I will rush back to the hat store in pursuit of the very topper I knew would actualize me in spite of my having acted against instinct. Then I will learn that it sold out because only a woman as foolish as I would give up such a hat and forever henceforth, it will remain a romanticized figment of my imagination, deposited in the crestfallen pocket of Hats That Could Have Been.

Or will it? In considering the prospect of ones that got away, I did not omit the other things that fall into my mind’s varying categories of Things That Could Have Been. The purse, the skirt, the shoes with fur balls, that bracelet, those socks! Socks? Yes, socks.

I may not have been ready to assume them as my own when they first began exhibiting themselves as the very leaders that could festoon my exterior but months, sometimes years later — and this happens at the turn of every season — an unsolicited itch will take over my finger tips and so will begin the overwrought search for what I clearly should have purchased while it was still, as Kix put it, hot.

So, what’s a lady, heart stuck in the past, wishing for the tangible objects to resurrect themselves for future purpose to do? Turn her attention to The RealReal. Duh. Where consignment shopping actually, finally, feels like an edited nod to snails like me who experience symptoms of a disorder I’ll call Need It While It’s Lukewarm.

They say the difference between a competent person and a stupid person is that the latter never learns from her mistakes, and because I never want to function as a statistic to further prove that definition, The RealReal has given me the opportunity to never miss out again. Sure, the competitive pricing helps, but now I know that when life hands you headgear, you take that and become the craziest hat lady you can be — Carven sunglasses, multiple Céline clutches, single Chanel glove, double Balenciaga bracelets, Manolo Blahnik sandals and Proenza Schouler skirt, of course, notwithstanding.

In fact, this idea of a proverbial hat lady has me wondering if it was a kooky millinery fanatic who penned the original “Twelve Days of Christmas” song. Her true love gave her gifts for each day of the holiday’s advent, and I can only imagine what our accessorized heroine would look like had Instagram been around. Would she pose, as I did, with all of her amassed gifts practically spilling from her arms, like a child unable to contain her own excitement at the prospect of bow-tied packages? Consider The RealReal’s 12 Days of Gifting, with twelve gift-minded shops curated for each of those twelve days — what on this snow covered earth would we look like if our true loves picked an apple from each those sartorial orchards? A crazy hat lady, that’s what. Auspiciously drinking one big mug of hot cider.

Part 1 of 1 in a collaboration with The RealReal; 12 Days of Gifting runs from Dec. 3 through Dec. 14 with new shops launching daily, featuring luxury consignment up to 90–yes, 90% off.

The Spoils of Cyber Shopping

If I get one more email informing me that I have 30% off site-wide [insert e-store here] I am either going to stab myself in the knee or burn every bank card I have until this point accrued so to secure that my cash money remains just that: cash money.

Kidding, guys, I’m totally kidding. I love Cyber Monday more than I do my own elbows. And If I were Kristen Wiig’s late Surprise Party character on SNL, right now you’d see the semblance between her yelling “I’m so FREAKIN’ EXCITED” and my own. But why the excitement?

Because I’m Jewish! Duh! Nothing riles me up more than a discount, even if the marked-down item in question is still incredibly expensive, just not as expensive as it was before. Evidently, I am also a sucker — and in case you’ve already peeked through the above slideshow and are wondering which spoils I’ve officially made my own, you’re right to think those there burgundy suede and orange patent leather and acid yellow square toe Nicholas Kirkwood pumps have my name written all over them.

Before we proceed, here’s something to consider: if this were just ten years ago, my bet is that running around yelling “Cyber Monday” would probably force you to think that today is the day the world’s largest internet orgy is taking place, right? That alone should make sitting back, losing cash and marveling in the mere fact that no sexually digitized infections are going around considerably easier.

Glad we got that out of the way. They’re grouped by price in descending order so if you’re looking at that black Chloé skirt thinking, “What!?!?!?!?? $2,970?” don’t worry, that’s a special “enchilada” offering that I don’t actually assume you will — or should — buy. It’s just so damn pretty and makes me want to become a dumpster-diving ballerina. You can sympathize with that, can’t you? Also on the WTF scale: that burgundy Margiela motorcycle jacket which is now $952 but, but, but an additional 20% off the ticketed price at checkout until midnight. I’m not saying do it, but I’m also not saying don’t.

Where things are slightly but not much more affordable: you can now have a red Saint Laurent iPad case for $595. It will moonlight as a clutch. If you hate moonlighting because it reminds you of bare asses, how about Pierre Hardy’s suede, four tone clutch, which is now $522? It’s holiday time, people. Forget regret or life is yours to miss.

In a territory I’ll call Under 500, we have the aforementioned Nicholas Kirkwood pumps for $497, Chloé mid-heels for French people only $469, an Opening Ceremony jacket that will not keep your legs warm but will make your neck look cool — pun intended — for $452 and a Stella Jean Coat for $450 that actually might. And because gluttony is in this month, how about a Shorouk ring for $450 or Saint Laurent sneakers for $401? No? Okay. Whatever.

For under $400 you can score your very own MM6 wool jacket for $398, a Stella McCartney candy clutch for $393, a J.W Anderson mohair sweater that could very well double as a jacket because that shit warm for $391, the most magical Delpozo top for $360 or a Phillip Lim cosmetic case, one that also maintains the ability to be something it is not for $346.

For under $300, we’ve got you covered with an Isabel Marant fuzzy-ass sweater for $284, a Carven crossover button up for $270, a red and pink Marni Dress that is perfect for girls who like to pretend to be ladies for a mere $248, Dannijo earrings for $241, Valentino Boots for $239, a Chloé shirt dress for $239, a Tibi Skirt for $227, and [insert breath here] a Pink Carven Skirt for $210.

At under $200 how about a pair of sunglasses? They’re by the Row. Or pumps? Also of the Marni variety? They’ve got straps and they’re $151. You can take the J.Crew half denim varsity jacket for $150, or a pink Suno shirt dress for $137. There’s a clutch, by Santi, for $130 and, drum roll please: some Isabel Marant jeans, now $100.

And finally, because, again, you might want to masquerade as a lady, here are leather gloves from J. Crew for $82. To tickle your blogger bone, Phillip Lim’s now ubiquitous I Love Nueva York tee is $81 and that’s a wrap. Where you going? What you doing? Tell me everything. Leave nothing out.

Feature image via Vogue Italia, shot by Steven Meisel

It’s Not You, It’s Me

It was my mother who introduced me to the first article of clothing that would break my heart.

We were hours into one of our marathon adventures in acquisition therapy, and I’d spent the past several trying on versions of the same inky black cocktail dress. True to my finicky reputation, I hated every one. I like to think I had very definitive taste for a teenager. More than likely, I was just a sixteen-year-old with an attitude problem.

After I’d dismissed yet another seemingly inoffensive candidate, my mother snatched a swingy, outlying contender from the waiting heap.

“But it’s purple!” I protested. I meditated momentarily on my largely monochromatic wardrobe. “It won’t match a single thing I own.”

“Who cares? It’s festive! Besides,” she said, invoking one of my paternal grandmother’s oft-repeated mottos: “Change is good.”

Dutifully, I slipped the fluid material over my head. Rendered in heavy satin, the dress looked like it had been designed to suit the tastes of a woman more glamorous than I could ever hope to be. A pleated collar and severe, black cuffs heightened its Czarist appeal. Had humble fabric ever commanded such gravitas? I thought not! That the walls of our fluorescent-lit dressing room dissolved in the dress’s ethereal presence is, perhaps, a slight exaggeration; that no garment had ever before so perfectly complemented my fledgling frame is simple fact.

“This is the kind of dress that never goes out of style,” my mother declared. I nodded in firm agreement as I appraised my own reflection. I needed to own it. Anyway, it was 2008. Hadn’t Marc Jacobs assured us that purple was the new neutral?

Given that I was an ostensibly “growing girl,” the dress saw me through an impressive number of blustery winter seasons. At first, I wore it only to celebrate the most special occasions. But soon I found myself more frequently succumbing to its evergreen charms. The following year, I wore it to two holiday gatherings, at least one piano recital, and my grandfather’s birthday party. After that, I wore it to a high-school classmate’s engagement party and then again to attend my cousin’s wedding. Having long before earned its status as a proper noun, the Purple Dress became my most dependable “plus one.” Where warm-blooded boys could be sloppy and slow and absent, the Purple Dress was exceptional. To this day it remains the only date ever to have successfully made my legs look longer. For that, I am eternally grateful.

On some level, I must have known that not even a superlative relationship could last forever. After all, I’d seen The Notebook. The dress would inevitably decline, if only of old age. Its zipper would break or a seam would irreparably rip, and I had to imagine I might one day outgrow it. Still, while our cruel parting was preordained, I could never have anticipated it would happen as it ultimately did.

I returned home from college last month to make an appearance at a family fete. Nearly five years after our auspicious meeting, I donned what I’d come to privately consider my sartorial soul mate.

The moment I pulled its purple fabric over my head I was immediately aware that something had gone terribly wrong.

The dress’s once impeccable proportions fell shapelessly across my shoulders. Its sleeves that previously billowed gracefully now threatened the laws of gravity. I tugged and manipulated its newly dowdy hemline in vain. No amount of readjusting could alter such sobering reality: what had once approximated a Tolstoyan opera gown now more closely resembled a very fancy dishrag.

There is a unique horror in facing a former flame only to discover that the burning spark you once shared has been extinguished. I, for one, am all too familiar with it. And yet not even the experience of that human heartbreak could have prepared me for this brand of apparel-induced anguish.

“I don’t even know you anymore!” I wanted to cry to the lifeless silk. “I thought we were meant to be!”

I never expected to fall out of love with my adult-size clothing. Honestly, the reason I’ve spent days and dollars investing in it because some small part of me believes that the acquisition of “grown-up” garb is a necessary qualification of maturity. Jury duty, taxes, an important wardrobe — these seemed the apparent marks of adulthood. Of course, I’ve since realized my naiveté. Personal style is not a dress measurement or shoe size. It doesn’t stabilize at age sixteen or twenty-one or fifty-five just because we’d like it to. Spoiler alert: we never stop growing.

I don’t regret the years the Purple Dress and I enjoyed together. The truth is it wasn’t really either of our faults. We changed. Or at least: prevailing styles did.

Luckily, I haven’t become entirely unromantic. Despite strong evidence to the contrary, I believe I’ll find the One. For better and for worse. In sickness and in health. As long as we both shall live.

Still, I’m in no hurry to settle down with some timeless trench coat or quilted carryall. I’m young and indecisive. I spill red wine far too often to seriously commit to the Dry-Clean-Only dresses of this world. So for now, change is good.

Illustration by Charlotte Fassler

The Very Best of Woody Allen

Woody Allen turns 78 on Sunday. This makes him a Sagittarius which makes me (Leandra), born on December 20, (what’s that Biggie once sang? If you don’t know, now you know…that I wear a size six shoe) feel conflicted.

On the one hand, I’m elated to share my sign with such prolific, comedic talent. But on the other: fuck. I suppose my incurable hypochondria and fascination with not just death but perpetually dodging it is a direct result of that which our cosmos have in common.

Rather than dwell on the inevitable end, though, let’s acknowledge this archetypal centenary the way it’s supposed to be treated: like a celebration, which, on the Friday morning Thanksgiving, obviously includes the tools you’d need to get through all layman Saturday mornings: a slideshow (chock full of Woody and his ladies!) and you. In bed. Thinking about Thursday’s stuffing, trying to convince yourself that today might be the day you actually go to the gym.

But don’t do that! Life is for living and right now your bed needs you. So do your fingers — which are dying to continue clicking through the images above while you smile and maybe sporadically cringe as you wonder how the hell Penélope Cruz does that thing she does where she is inexorably beautiful all the time.

Should we play the “best Woody Allen quotes of all time” game, while we’re at it? Okay! Fine! We’ll start.

“I believe there is something out there watching us. Unfortunately, it’s the government.”

“I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying. I don’t want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.”

“Don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone you love.”

“Life doesn’t imitate art, it imitates bad television.”

“You will notice that what we are aiming at when we fall in love is a very strange paradox. The paradox consists of the fact that, when we fall in love, we are seeking to re-find all or some of the people to whom we were attached as children. On the other hand, we ask our beloved to correct all of the wrongs that these early parents or siblings inflicted upon us. So that love contains in it the contradiction: The attempt to return to the past and the attempt to undo the past.”

“He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat [...] New York was his town, and it always would be.”

Finally, because it’s apropos and curiously comforting: “You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.”

And, of course, because it ain’t a weekend slideshow without the right music, here is Sidney Bechet’s Si Tu Vois Ma Mère.

Okay, your turn. Miss you, love you, see you Monday.

Soul Seeking Mate

People think that soulmates are like cake, or pie, when in fact, they’re actually much more like cookies. See, when you indulge in a cake you can have as much of it as you want. Finish it or don’t. It won’t matter because you’ve already nailed the flavor in your first several bites. The taste won’t change. You might like it, you might absolutely love it, it might be the capstone of birthday cakes, but when you’re done eating you’ve satiated your fifth sense with just one, comprehensive taste.

With cookies, you get the opportunity to bask in variety. You don’t have to choose a chocolate chip cookie over a sugar cookie or a macadamia nut. You can be finicky about your selection and then rest assured that unlike with cake, you can have your cookies and eat them too.

When considering soulmates, the supposition is always that there is one per person. That after you’ve found your one, your search is over, that your existence has been complimented and can therefore be rendered complete. But what if at the tender age of 23, you’ve already fulfilled this “duty.” Where does that leave you and the anticipatory years of exploration you imagine lay ahead?

Probably eating one uniform loaf of cake.

According to Wikipedia, the layman interpretation of soulmate is “a person with whom one has a feeling of deep or natural affinity.”

The historical context dates back to a theory culled by Plato that suggests in addition to the male and female genders, there was another: the “Androgynous” — a powerful and therefore highly threatening group that boasted both male and female genitals betwixt their legs. To eliminate competition and double the number of human worship, head honcho Zeus split the Androgynous down the middle so that each one got either a penis or a vagina, not both. The separated humans would then forever pine for his or her other half.

Another theory states that the androgynous gender was divided as a karmic testament to the gluttonous nature of their habits on earth. As the story goes, if and when the karmic debt is paid, the separate parts come back together.

Evidently, Match.com has found a loophole to predate the post-payment consolidation process. How? Watch one commercial — just one — and count the times these human affirmations will effusively declare, “I found my soulmate!”

You will cringe, I will too. But there’s trouble in that because at its core, Match.com is a selfless, endearing service aimed at helping to locate the thing we all presumably search for: happiness. That we look for happiness in the prospect of a partner, of course, presents another issue, but the relationship stories that come out of the website have, I am positive, affected at least a handful of people you know personally and maybe even taken you off the ledge of lonely.

Online dating is no longer a stigma. If you don’t have time to loiter around bars, there’s literally an app for that. If you’re not sure whether he’s is looking for his Mrs. Right, you can rest assured there is a place where you will know. So why are we cringing?

Because they’re calling each other soulmates! Duh! How corny is that? But why did the poor old compound word, made up of two seemingly diffident, one syllable nouns become such a hallmark of misplaced sentimentality?

It could be popular culture’s fault. After all, it turned the act of finding your soulmate into a violently platitudinal state of existence that describes two romantically involved parties who have become annoyingly happy and irrevocably in love preachers of the old adage, “Don’t worry, you’ll find your lid.”

My friend Sophie e-mailed me on Monday to ask about my stance on the topic of soulmates. I would imagine she thought I was the right person to ask because I’ve already chosen my cake, so to speak. But here’s the thing: heteronormality mandates that your soulmate should be your life companion, and the assumption when considering life companionship is that this “lobster” (as one Phoebe Buffet once put it when explaining the rubberband effect that was Ross and Rachel’s relationship), can only be your seafood of choice romantically. But does that have to be the case? Can’t a partner just be a partner? A really good one, who gets you, who likes you just as much as you like him or her, who stimulates you intellectually and as a bonus, offers athletic value to your bedroom-rooted exercise regiment?

Friendship is powerful. In spite of how much I love my partner-in-sex, when I think about my friends, I’m almost positive that I reap all the intrinsic benefits of a “soulmate” from the girls who have become my sisters. I feel the same way when I think about my mom, who gets me to a degree that I don’t even get myself. Sometimes, in fact, when I’m seated in that cushy leather chair, staring into a mirror while the man behind me rests his chin an inch above my crown and says “You need to go shorter,” I think my hairdresser might be my soulmate, too. Of course, the latter relationships are devoid of sexual stimulation but guess what? I have another, very reliable battery operated “soulmate” for that.

So why can’t my mom or best friend or hairdresser be my fresh-baked batch of soulmates while my husband just functions as my, you know, American Pie?

Illustration by Charlotte Fassler

Tailor Make Your Cool

So rare is it that someone can successfully tap into the workings of his own mental objects and translate those acute, elaborate thoughts to become something tangible for whoever is willing to participate. Because to walk into a store and recognize a scent as indigenous to that place, the photography as not just approved by but taken by the creative force that drives his commerce and to notice the nuanced difference between the lacquered floors and mahogany-but-same-color tables and appreciate that to make those colors work probably took months of sourcing for the sake of only one person’s appeasement, is, to me, what the shopping experience is supposed to be about.

To leave feeling like you’ve just culled an intimate relationship with a person you don’t even know, like you’ve very seriously purchased a part of his ethos — that’s something to talk about.

And when the merchandise paired with the experience is excellent, you’re either in terrible trouble or feeling really great about yourself. This, of course, depends on whether or not it’s Friday night and as *NSYNC so eloquently sang it, you ju-u-u-u-ust got paid.

At the helm of Johan Lindeberg, his brand Blk Dnm bleeds cool.

It is precisely the assemblage of high waist jeans that start exactly where you want them to at your stomach and end at a better ankle point than you’d even been looking for with the aid of a zipper down your leg, and loose fit counterparts that make you wonder how you lived before. The t-shirts fit the way they would on your trendy brother if he were a slightly beefy young boy, and the double breasted, thigh-length blazers which are “boyfriend fit” but don’t seem too perfect do exactly what you want them to: masquerade your upper body but beg the question of what happens when the jacket is off?

As for the leather jackets — the ultimate emblem of she who bleeds cool — you know my position on how trying the quest to achieve the perfect one can be. And because you know that, you also know that I found love in an anything-but-a-hopeless place at, yes, Blk Dnm.

So when a new project arises from these purveyors of swagger, what are we to do lest we concede to join?

Earlier this month, the brand launched a new project called Leather Project X wherein customers are invited to design their own leather jackets pulling from several pre-existing silhouettes and filling them in with blocks of different fabric and color — whatever the hell you want. It seems like the most effective way to tailor make your very own sense of “cool girl” which is why when I caught wind of said project, I was determined to participate in pursuit of constructing something equal parts awesome and weird.

What I came out with registered much more awesome than it did weird with its red suede front, black detailing and faux-croc back.

When I tried it on, I knew I’d finally mastered the art of faking it.

It’s like a white wall just found me, begged me to lean against it while I peppered my coat with a beanie and ripped jeans and before I could even spell out Daria’s last name, W-e-r-b…I was finally, irrefutably cool.

Of course, it wore off. But those were the best 16 seconds of my life.

Rag & Bone jeans, Blk Denim jacket and t-shirt, Theory beanie and Fratelli Rossetti shoes.