Leandra Medine's Blog, page 753

Creative Investigation

Once upon a time, my friend Julia went to a bar and met a man she called her soulmate. They had almost everything in common, but just enough things not in common to provide fodder for faux-bickering in that annoying flirty way two individuals about to get it on — either emotionally or literally — are known to do. He was cute, she brought him home.

Fast-forward through their mundane mid-week text exchange and cut to Sunday morning after a third sleepover at her apartment when he asked to use her computer to check his bank account or email or look for rings at Jared, whatever. She told him yes — of course her soulmate could use her computer.

But as he inched toward the computer to power the monitor on, Julia remembered what she’d done. It was too late to turn back now. The screen came on and there it was: his name typed into Google, and the slew of search results listed below it.

“You googled me?” he asked her. I would imagine the note of horrification on his voice matched the look on her face but I wasn’t there, so.

What I do know, however, is that what we have here is a common case of Creative Investigation, which is a term coined by my friend Danielle to define the inevitable “digital research” that takes place between one half of a whole (typically romantic) interaction prior to, let’s say, a date.

So, in other words, Julia was “creeping.”

We’ve all done it at some point, it’s just that unlike poor Julia most of us don’t get caught, and similar to watching MTV’s 16 and Pregnant, no one admits it. Creative Investigation ranges from the more common surname-plus-school Google search to highly advanced, CIA-style excavations involving a sum of every blurry detail you gathered save for his or her actual name. I know a guy who researched a girl he met in a bar based only off the sport she played in college and her hometown which she’d briefly mentioned. By their second date, she knew nothing about the fact that he knew all about her recent trip to Canada.

Our access to personal databases are as quotidian as brushing our teeth now. To follow an entity on Instagram or Twitter is, essentially, to stalk: Amelia Diamond is now following you. And to post, I suppose, is to elicit that attention. A notification that, in the past, might have driven someone to call the police – You have five new requests from strangers! – now equals nothing more than a number tied to self worth. Who cares if your newest follower is the masked killer from Scream? He just bumped you into triple digits on Instagram, baby. But mind the steak knife.

The thing is, just because we have the tools doesn’t mean we have to use them.

I only know of one person who flat out refuses to investigate potential dalliances using creative resources — even if it’s a blind date. “All I need to know is his name, and maybe what color sweater he’s wearing,” she says. “Usually I just look for the dude sitting solo, pretending to text someone.” No Lulu, no LinkedIn, nothing. It’s old school, really. When asked why she doesn’t use the tools made readily available to her, she responds with two answers: 1) she wouldn’t want someone looking up her history and coming upon unflattering shots from photo agencies and 2) she likes to give people the unique chance of starting with a clean slate. After all, no googling means no prejudices (see: Oh! He rowed crew!, or alternately, Ew! He rowed crew).

As for my friend Julia and her “soulmate” — he bolted shortly thereafter. She’s moved on and has conceivably learned her lesson as evidenced by her recently telling me that she clears her search history on a daily basis now. In that same breath, though, she did also say, “I really don’t think he stopped talking to me because I googled him. He probably just hated my sneakers.”

So You’re Stranded on An Island, Right?

If I had a dime for every time an inquisitive (albeit box-shaped) mind has proposed the inevitable, never new but always, for some reason far beyond my understanding, highly lucrative scenario-chased-with-a-question: you’re stranded on an island, what do you take?

Personally, I find several difficulties with this hallmark investigation. First, the assumption is that because you know you can — and likely should — bring things, you’re well aware that you’ll eventually find yourself moonlighting as the lead roll in an adaptation of Robert Zemeckis’ 2000 hit, Cast Away. So let’s just take this off the table now: Tom Hanks will not be there when you arrive.

Furthermore and because the question comes from the initiated denizens of fashion fairly frequently, why is the assumption that if and when you do proceed with your trip and subsequently find yourself stuck sans WiFi, the supposition is always that the things you will take are highly fashion oriented.

I’m a victim of this answer myself, you see. “Definitely a white t-shirt, maybe jeans though my instinct is to say shorts. Does it get cold over there? Should I waste one of my precious items on a sweater I don’t even really care about? I’ll probably need my favorite pair of shoes but in the interest of comfort, I’ll take sneakers too. Golden Goose, please.”

But, hello! Earth to Leandra! You’re on a desert island! No one is here! No one cares what you’re wearing! You definitely don’t need pumps, especially because you’d probably want to wear them to dinner which, surprise! Does not exist on a desolate patch of land. Take your passport and a WiFi box, maybe your childhood blanket for emotional comfort, so that you can a. communicate with life on more developed corners of the world and b. cover your shoulders with a memento from purer days if it gets chilly.

For someone self-dubbed practical, I think I suck at surviving.

Bygones shall be bygones though, and in an attempt to modify the rules of this “game,” I propose the following: say you’re about to be deported to an island or otherwise location very far from your home. You can only take a carry-on sized suitcase with you but make no mistake, you will not be in isolation, your social life will remain ferociously robust — in fact, Fashion Week occurs where you’re going and you’re invited to every single event. It’s just that once you reach your destination, there is absolutely no shopping. You’ve got to take what you have and make sure its edited down to a selection you will love and feel beautiful in and happy about forever.

So now what do you take?

Are you thinking about it?

Good. Because what I’m asking in essence is what you believe makes up the best and most concise version of your wardrobe. In thinking this over myself, I keep reverting back to a pared down iteration of the basic items that help speak for me. I’d take blue jeans but probably not ripped ones. A white blouse, but not a mens button down, no. I want a cotton twill crew neck that pulls on over my head and fits like a mens blouse might but without the fuss of a collar or line of buttons I must tend to.

I’d still take pumps. Probably a pair in white patent leather or a short pair. In yellow. I’d need a coat should it get cool so I’d opt for something tailored, likely ankle length and bell shaped. I prefer a rounded collar but would settle for a traditional one. Maybe a grey cashmere sweater, maybe not?

When it got warmer, I don’t think I’d want to wear anything save for a shin-length vintage lace white sleeveless, high neck, zip-back dress. A jean jacket might nicely compliment my christening dress and for shoes? A pair of short-heel sandals that continue up my leg until a few centimeters beyond my ankle. Sneakers, too.

It’s sensible, that’s for sure, but is it what’s smart? Do I really want to be dressed sensibly for the rest of my life? Why don’t I just take that spectacularly sheer, green off the shoulder balloon blouse and a pair of wide leg purple pants to pair with them. A metallic plaid shift dress to wear with a wool striped jacket and military style over coat — gold buttons, red velvet, the whole enchilada — for, I don’t know, green utility pants? Glitter shoes, three pair of sunglasses. I should fill that suitcase to its brim until the zipper is about to tear with hats and colored socks and thick gold chokers that will do nothing for my protection. If I’m conceding, after all, to remove myself from my comfort zone, I may as well really stray, become the most hyperliteralized version of myself and in doing so, turn the dramatic into my personal prosaic.

The way I see it, there are always surrounding cities that still maintain shopping centers.

But that’s just me. What are you taking?

She Who Wears A Hat

I walked into a department store last Friday dressed rather regularly in a pair of black jeans which have been aptly named the “tomboy jeans” by Blk Dnm’s Johan Lindeberg, worn with a white button down blouse, a grey jacket and red, sparkly-ass ballet-style short heels. I was wearing a wide brim hat and holding a red bag, which in hindsight looked grossly coordinated with my shoes. You live and you learn, right?

“How are you today?” an earnestly polite salesman asked while I thumbed through a rack of navy blue blouses.

“Well, thank you,” I responded, to which said man retorted, “It shows.”

The pithy exchange was endearing. It felt like one of those great New York moments that make living here worth it by simple virtue of receiving confirmation that even when considering the tiny things, like an unassuming spectator who completely gets your aura, there’s nowhere like it.

The thing is, why — or how — did my over-well-ming sense of eudaemonia show? I wasn’t particularly put together save for the aforementioned sparkly-ass shoes. At this point, I’d had lunch so my blouse was stained in four places and if I’m going to get really honest with you, I hadn’t showered in like, five days. (Blog research! You’ll see!)

I surmised that it had to be the hat. It had been presenting nuanced challenges all day (do I take it off when I get on the subway and if so, where do I put it? Are these people looking at me because I appear so damn affected? Now that I’m seated indoors and at a meeting, what do I do with the hat?) but this correspondence seemed like the most blaring indication that to wear a hat is not just to make a statement, but to yell that you are the type of woman who knows how to pull off a hat. And so, by the power vested in your indispensable swag, you will.

This point has only been fine-tuned by a perspective that Charlotte offered on hat-wearing and the popular stereotype that when you wear one, you look like an asshole. (Asshole in both senses, meaning that you are probably a dick but also a moron.) She said that the reason hat-wearers probably appear as they do is because wearing the topper takes a lot of confidence. Enough, at least, to seriously believe that everyone else has got it wrong, but you’ve got it right. In the spirit of emulating that confidence in order to possibly accrue some of our own, you’ll find three looks styled with the very hat I wore last week.

In the first instance, I’m wearing the same grey Hanro jumpsuit I slept in the night before, which I have said on multiple occasions that I love because it makes me feel like I am in the fetal position. This look is meant to encapsulate that Friday morning oh-my-goodness-it’s-not-the-weekend-yet?-What-do-you-mean-I-have-to-get-up-and-ready-for-work pre-day coffee run. You throw a denim jacket (mine is Acne) on over your pajamas and a trench coat (mine is by Mina & Olya) on over that and because you haven’t washed your hair in a week (blog research! You’ll see!) you effectively need a hat. The sneakers (Converse x Missoni though Free Knits should do) provide a nice contrast when considering how otherwise “formal” a wide brimmed hat can be, and the Olympia Le-Tan clutch is essentially just foreshadowing scenario #2.

You probably know by now that this blog is underscored by a deep, insatiable hankering to tango with Sarkozy so this scenario demonstrates how to wear a hat when you’re trying to look impossibly French. That’s why my facial expression denotes a sense of perpetual ugh-ness. Get it? Got it? Good. The cropped white blouse is from ASOS, the high waist jeans are by Blk Dnm, the grey jacket is from the Isabel Marant pour H&M collab-o-lab and the shoes are last season’s Marant – hold the H, hold the M.

In a final scenario that may or may not get you ready for resort, it’s important to remember that because the preferred headgear makes such a statement you either have to let it speak by muting out its surroundings, or give it reason to want to get louder. Here, it’s paired with a balloon sleeved off-the-shoulder blouse by Vika Gazinskaya and Theyskens’ Theory wide leg pants. Sometimes it’s okay to, instead of speak for your look, let it speak for you. Knaaamean?

End scene.

Know Your Labels: Maki Oh

Growing up in Nigeria’s bustling port city of Lagos was, according to designer Maki Osakwe, a perfect setting to watch the 90s power-dressing movement live. Weekday mornings as her mom got ready for work, Maki witnessed style firsthand. Now, the young African designer is creating a type of modern power-dressing all her own.

“Nigerians are born with true grit and a competitive spirit,” she told me. “It’s in our DNA to want to be the best at everything we do. I guess it’s the time for fashion now.”

Melding traditional fabrics and techniques with modern silhouettes, Osakwe’s Maki Oh is next up on our roster of labels you need to know.

Tell me about where you grew up. How did that influence your style?

My mom is an artist and a designer. She made my siblings and I design all the clothes we wore as kids. So I started young. She would collect our sketches and on the weekend, we would go to the markets to pick out fabrics. [S]he’d have the garments made by the start of the next week. My mom is too cool.

Plus, this city called Lagos has to be one of the world’s liveliest cities. Lagosians are very fashionable and flamboyant people, across all sectors of society, whether rich or poor. We are born this way.

How does living in Nigeria now play a role in your current designs?

My cultural heritage is what influences my work the most. I’m very inspired by Nigeria and Africa in general. Lagos is a vibrant and ever-evolving city with a unique energy and I’m happy to have been brought up here. I live in Lagos because it is home, and because I’m right in the hub of my main source of inspiration. I hear, see, feel, breathe and taste Nigeria every day. I learn something new about my culture and environment every day.

We have such rich cultures in all of Africa that need to be celebrated. Quite a lot of our fabric at Maki Oh is organically dyed [using a process called Adire] on organic silks and cottons, as opposed to industrial printing/dyeing. We strongly believe in sustainability.

Our fabrics are locally dyed in southern Nigeria using methods that have been passed down, unchanged, from generation to generation. Adire is one of the few authentic Nigerian fabrics we have. Traditionally, everything from the growing of the cotton to the dyeing of the fabric was (and still is) done on Nigerian soil, and this authenticity appeals to me. The use of natural indigo and the Adire dyeing processes is our own small contribution to preserving a dying art.

What inspires you? Do you seek out inspiration or let it come to you?

I have always been inspired by my culture, couture, sustainability, process, women and the different notions of beauty. Some seasons I’m lucky to have the inspiration come to me, but the fashion calendar doesn’t permit this all of the time. So fortunately/unfortunately I go searching [for inspiration]. This actually helps though, because I’m constantly seeking information and learning.

I’m curious though, what other creative fields have a seasonal time bomb attached to them like fashion does?

At Man Repeller, we’re constantly stressing the idea that dressing is for one’s self (and not even for other women). We believe it’s for pure personal pleasure and self-expression. Does the idea of dressing for self/women/or men play a role in your designs?

Each Maki Oh piece has a hidden meaning. [T]his is taken from decades ago when traditional clothing in Nigeria was worn to pass messages. It’s a secret conversation sometimes within oneself, or other times between the wearer and the observer. I believe that the woman wearing Maki Oh thinks much further and deeper than the physical, because she is a multifaceted woman who projects her whole being in everything she does, and in the clothes she wears.

How does being a woman who designs for women affect your vision?

As each season goes by I gain more respect and fall even more in love with everything WOMAN. I love being a woman. Every Maki Oh collection has been inspired by women, from street-workers to nuns. If you love women, then I believe you can’t help but be a feminist too. Maki Oh collections all express feminist views in different doses.

On your website, it says “the design ethos of Maki Oh is to challenge prevailing notions of beauty.” I absolutely love that idea — could you expand on what that means?

What is Beauty? It’s a question we ask ourselves all the time here. We [at Maki Oh] don’t care much for how society defines beauty. Every season, we try to create and find our own ‘beauty’ in subjects that don’t fit within society’s definition of it.

***

Regardless of society’s definition of beauty, it’s undeniable that Maki Osakwe has captured the essence of all that is beautiful about being a woman. From deep-rooted culture to family ties; a secret, a story, a memory, a dress; Maki Oh is power dressing for the next generation of style.

Click through the slideshow above for looks from Maki Oh’s recently shown Spring 2014 collection and also her Fall 2013 line. Available for pre-order upon request at Maryam Nassir Zadeh.

Images courtesy of Mode PR

The To-Do List

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 been measuring my life in to-do lists since the ninth grade.

I suspect you might find this fact depressing, which is why I’d like to lie and tell you that I keep them in the name of some experimental journaling project or because a large-looming, corduroy-wearing English teacher told me that Virginia Woolf attributed the strength of her writing to a similar practice. If only. The truth is so much less glamorous.

It goes something like this: as a self-important fifteen year old, I had decided I needed a better system to organize my highly demanding existence. Previously, I’d recorded academic responsibilities on the inside of my forearm in blue ballpoint pen. The method suddenly struck me as incredibly juvenile. I was in high school, goddammit. I had obligations! In search of an alternative that did not necessarily compromise personal hygiene, I set off for Staples and bought myself a slim, black notebook. “Would Judy Funnie have carried this?” I speculated. Yes, I believe she would have.

That year, I filled the planner with enthusiastic reminders to “Do history reading!” and “Read Hamlet!” I used it to document doctors’ appointments and the particulars of a growing number of extracurricular activities. I do not exaggerate when I say that it taught me accountability and discipline and the importance of routine. It also and most importantly introduced me to the potent, private joy that comes with crossing something off its pages. I ask you: Is any household act so satisfying?

By now, I’ve been playing the list-making game for over half a decade.

Sometimes, if I’m having a particularly unproductive day, I’ll scribble some inconsequential task in my beloved Moleskine’s margins just to have something to show for myself. “Take out trash”? You bet I did! It sounds crazy, but I mean it! Each checked-off box is an affirmation. It’s a tiny, real victory. It’s proof: I did it.

Given my confessed, pseudo-psychological dependency on the ritual of it all, it’s no wonder that I’ve become the type of addled millennial capable of wasting much of her Sunday morning perusing such pieces as: “30 Books to Read Before You Turn Thirty,” “The 20 Mistakes You Don’t Want to Make in Your Twenties,” and “The 8 Things Every 20 Something Woman Needs In Her Apartment.” Does it matter that I do not currently have an apartment? I hope not. Either way, I’m sure Elite Daily would still encourage me to invest in “A Sophisticated Laundry Bag.”

More embarrassing even than the fact that the one it suggests is stamped with the words “Soiled Garments” is the reality that I’m quite literally tempted to buy into its recommendations. Like those of my own idiosyncratic to-do lists, its implicit claim is so tantalizing: Do these things. Buy this laundry bag. You too can be an adult!

Earlier this week, The Cut’s Allison Davis cogently took issue with the kinds of itemized articles that I can’t seem to stop reading:

[T]hese convoluted, inspirational lists . . . offer no real value. Adulthood becomes a deadline, a specific abstraction, involving lofty goals like spiritual growth, crazy life experiences, and the kind of emotional intelligence that takes most people a lot of therapy and just livin’ to achieve. The flowery phrasing makes for a fun Facebook post, but for a generation of adults who often still rely on their parents for money to pay bills, where is the utility?

Later, Davis goes on to cite Salon writer Mary Elizabeth Williams’ more practical guide to “being a grown-up,” which declares that even nominal maturity demands — among other things — exercise, empathy, and basic money management.

By now, I can theoretically appreciate that not even religious adherence to such arbitrary lists can guarantee a lifetime of security. There’s no small, square box for that.

And yet, I can’t seem to tear myself away from Elite Daily and BuzzFeed and the treatise that Davis spotlights in her own piece — Glamour’s “30 Things Every Woman Should Have and Should Know by the Time She’s 30.” By the way, neither can my roommates. The prospect that someone else might have devised a perfect formula to justify our twenties and make it through our thirties is too enticing to pass up.

But are we the only ones who think so?

Let’s Talk About It.

Give Me Prints, But Only if They’re Old

Two winters ago, I finally got my digital paws on The Stella McCartney Fruit Skirt — slits, pleats, citrus prints and all — after fortuitously stumbling upon it on Yoox.com. I waited the full 3-5 business days for it to arrive and when it did, I loved it more then I had when it first came out. Not because it was steeply discounted — though that was certainly a variable that aided my no-brainer attitude toward proprietorship — but simply because I liked that it felt new and exciting a full season and change after it had already flourished on its runway, then in enumerable editorials, and then finally, in season, in stores and, yes, full price.

Though it had always felt cool (perhaps simply by virtue of being Stella McCartney), the skirt felt cool in a different way now. Completely devoid of the perils tethered to being “on trend” (I will never look at tigers or Bambi on sweatshirts the same way again), it marked a very pure fondness that was divorced from any other modifying implications for the print.

I felt great about having it A.C.E. — after common era, the same way I would have had I been able to find Dolce and Gabbana’s eggplants after they’d seen every marginal red carpet in this town. To me, it seemed, these prints became like a fine red wine that only bettered with age.

The thing about wine, though, is that once you drink it, it’s gone. With my clothes – and their poignant prints, the memories live on in a very real, very tangible way.

Take for example, the first time I wore my skirt. It was at a wedding in Mexico, where the prescribed dress code was “black tie” and therefore a relatively casual (as categorized on Yoox), white-based skirt had no place. And though I knew several Rabbis would be in attendance, not even that could stop me from debuting the skirt with slits so high, it’s a true achievement that my thighs did not develop nosebleeds. I was eager and therefore didn’t care but karma made sure I’d pay for the blatant disrespect and just 45 minutes into the procession, an entire carafe of red wine fell out of its glass and into my lap.

I know, I know, so meta.

Ultimately, the skirt made it, but that night was rough.

Though wearing a print fresh from the hand of its printer while in season certainly lends itself to a memory you can revisit every time you open your closet, waiting to own it allows you to tie another element to that process of recalled sentimentality. When Amelia sees the bananas indicative of Prada’s spring 2011 collection, she is throttled back to her internship at Condé Nast. She never made the print — and therefore the physical memory — her own, but when I see Stella McCartney’s fruit, before I can remember the score that made a quotidian afternoon far more spectacular, or the wedding I never should have worn it to, I’m 20 years old again and laying in bed.

My computer is on my stomach and I’m at my parents’ apartment where I still live. I’m clicking through Ms. McCartney’s spring slideshow on my fashion week portal: Style.com. Law and Order: SVU is on in the background but I don’t really hear it because all I can think about is whether I’ll ever be able to participate in a trend so cool. I walk to my tiny closet to see if there is anything in there that could be rendered even remotely similar and there I stand, neglecting a legion of past memories, anticipating an acidic future.

How To Dress for a Date

I had a date the other night. It went well, whatever, but we all know the most important point of interest regarding that sentence is what did I wear? 

What I wore is the exact outfit a friend told me not to wear: a blue and white striped men’s button down shirt with the front tucked into a pair leather pants, and emerald satin open-toed Stella McCartney shoes with gems that look like Candy Buttons stamped on their heels. Oh, and they have ankle straps.

“Why can’t I wear this?” I asked. I thought I looked pretty good. I was even planning on brushing my hair.

“Because you’re wearing a men’s shirt,” she retorted. “It’s huge. Wear a dress instead.”

Hahahahah. A dress. On a date. That’s so funny. But it actually is, because I had never before even considered wearing a skirt on a date, let alone a one-piece frock. Similarly to what Leandra mused earlier this week, I tend to underdress for occasions that might typically call for a more “dressed-up” wardrobe — especially when it comes to dating.

It’s probably some sort of defense mechanism. If I dress like I didn’t really try, then surely that sends a cavalier attitude to the world like, “Hey, look at me, I’m so cool, I’m wearing pants.” And didn’t Leandra mention in that anterior post that this attitude can often be traced back to some sort of primitive, poignant moment? Maybe in kindergarten I went on a playdate that I can’t seem to remember, and perhaps I showed up in some giant pink confection while my friend Donald Ducked-it in a diaper and tee.

More likely, however, at least in the case of me and my date, is that it boils down to comfort. Dates are awkward. You don’t know where to put your elbows or if your resting face looks too bitchy, and you want to touch your brow to see if it’s furrowing, but then what if he thinks you’re doing some secret signal to a friend in the back of the restaurant that means, “Get me out of here?” One time a guy made us share one burrito (one) and then took my half after I’d eaten two bites. If that doesn’t send a cautionary tale of wearing comfortable-enough clothes to hightail it the fuck out of there, then I don’t know what does.

But dressing “lax” can also help you in the event of a good date. What if you walk through a park? Or if you decide to be all rom-com chic and go for a spin around the old skating rink? If your knees are locked together from a too-tight skirt or wobbly heels, or you can’t lift your arms for fear of a wardrobe malfunction, it’s possible that you’ll regret dressing up.

So while all of that answers what I wore and why I wore it, it doesn’t really help get you dressed, so, let’s get dressed:

Start with pants. You can’t go wrong with leather or its faux counterpart, as no matter what’s happening up top they make your outfit look all the more cool.  I’m also partial to baggier denim, cuffed at the ankle with room for a serious pair of shoes.

Shoes are next. You should really be able to walk. Try the coolest heels you own because you did buy them for a reason after all (though at the moment I can’t stop thinking about simple pumps), but do not pass Go unless you’re sure you can walk at least two blocks without crying and/or vomiting from pain. If you’re all about flats — great. You’ll be that much happier after two glasses of wine.

When it comes to tops I always look for a great oversized button down, regardless of what my friend said. They’re classic and sexy in a Lauren Hutton-esque way. Roll up your sleeves, add some necklaces, bracelets or a cuff and feel like a strong-ass woman.

If you still prefer to take the skirt route in these colder months, opt for an A-Line style, tights and a (maybe?) cropped sweater. The look is pretty but not saccharine and still emanates a vibe that you’ll want to channel when you get the OMG-I’m-nervous jitters.

And that’s that. If this guide seems mind-numbingly simple that’s simply because it should be. Don’t over-think. It’s supposed to be fun. Just be weary of your elbows and we’ll get through this.

Now — if you don’t mind — I need to hear some fashion-fostered dating stories, so, please, indulge me.

Image via Marie Claire Russia

Jazz it Up With…

It is a universal truth that when you want to jazz it up, Zatarain’s can’t be far. What happens, though, when you’re considering your outfit, that which makes it prosaic, and how to eradicate that looming sense of “blah”? Is a stain smack dab in the middle of your chest care of the newest “Jambalaya Mix” really going to make your look seem all that better? In this instance, unfortunately, I think not.

Enter a selection of jewelry that makes co-existing with accessories during winter months and therefore sweater weather not just palatable, but enjoyable. Because, really, what’s worse than buying a huge crystal cuff, wearing said cuff and realizing shortly after having digested with pride the first omg-I-die-obsessed-where-did-you-get-it stamp of approval from your lady comrades that the entire sleeve of your knit has unraveled faster than a cat could have obliterated it when said cat first mistook the thing for a ball of yarn?

To answer that question for you, there’s only one thing that’s worse: trying to get a jacket on over a collection of thick bracelets that are paradoxically cramping your winter style because they seem so damn pivotal when considering all the black or denim you’ll be probably wearing every day. Through the end of May.

This brings me to my next point. Yesterday’s afternoon story referenced the proliferation of dark-colored clothing in the winter but left out an important detail: what about the accessories?

Granted, I styled the antecedent navy blue sweater and black jeans with a thick metal choker, but is it just me, or has jewelry that doesn’t require pre-shower removal never seemed this lucrative? I just want to know that what I put on, I don’t have to take off. Ever. Unless I want to. I’m sick of operating as a slave to my accessories but I might be experiencing a cold case of Stockholm Syndrome because I don’t want to forfeit them either. So where’s the happy medium?

Rhetorical question, obviously, because I’ve got an answer and it is in Australia-based accessory brand Wanderlust + Co, where not only ladies who like to put their metal to the pedal can unite but so too can the repellers on a budget — this way, you don’t have to be trading in your CASH-4-GOLD like all those illusive commercials tell you to.

Stack your dainty-ass plated arrow necklaces because you can afford all three colors, add a silver tablet that kind of looks like an old-school Advil capsule and let them tangle together. Mold a selection of the skinny, small gold rings to fit and festoon your fingers from the pinky backward. Try your luck with some bracelets if you want to, and definitely don’t let your ears continue to function as the unsung hero of jewelry wearing. The best part here, as previously inferred, is that no bracelet, ring, earring or necklace retails for upward of $50.

Now, for that Zatarain’s…

Part of a collaboration with Wanderlust + Co

Do You Really Want to Dress Like a Bowl of Lucky Charms?

Look, I’m not here to contradict my counterpart, but man! Amelia is stupid!

This morning she told you guys to dress like a bowl of Lucky Charms! That’s like basically telling you to masquerade yourself as the precise dividing cells that become malignant masses which can eventually kill you. Think about this for a second. The Charms in all that which is not Lucky are highly processed marshmallow bits that are not probably but definitely abusing your digestive system — and illusively at that.

So picture this: there you are, munching on your artificially colored clovers watching Saturday morning cartoons, thinking, “Man! This is what makes life worth living!” But then, bam! Diet-related maladies run amuck in your intestines and there’s really not much you can do it about it. As a micromanager, I find that one of my biggest fears is to have to forfeit control over the internal state of my body and that which does or does not make me healthy. So in light of preserving your control and well-being, let’s scale back and reconsider the stereotype that Ms. Diamond has submitted to forgo about the New Yorker and all that is black.

Make no mistake, though. I will be the first to tell you that black is arguably the most boring chroma on the color scale. Any single individual who has ever so much as exchanged a breath tethered to shopping with me will confirm that I have expressed, on a generous number of occasions, that I “don’t do black.” And while I want to continue to believe that it’s true — just in the name of personal consistency — guess what? I am “doing” black harder than Jay Z does Brooklyn.

Furthermore, too, I’ve been thinking about how much easier it is to get dressed — and not just dressed but dressed with panache — during winter months. This runs counter to my having historically sympathized with preferring to dress for warmer weather. I have previously argued that because in the summer there are fewer layers and therefore a more streamlined necessity to stand-out, it’s easier to get dressed. But as I slip my legs into the same pair of black rag & bone jeans day in and out, then pull an iteration of a grey, navy or black crew neck cashmere sweater over my head, I realize that in spite of what is indubitably boring, I’m not bored at all.

Plus I save like fifteen minutes of my mornings which brings up another interesting point: when discussing getting dressed, where there is no thought, there is no time-sensitive foul. But why the change of heart to begin with?

I could argue that in the same way I personally exploited prints two years ago and therefore haven’t been able to look at one (give or take a Pilotto piece), I’ve done the same thing with color. I’ve worn and re-worn too much yellow and red and green and pink to allow continued penetration in a world where I just want to be French.

Or maybe I really am slipping into a uniform. Maybe my trying on and taking off identities and repeating that process until I find something that sticks, that stays fresh, that doesn’t elicit an absolute urgency to locate the nearest Zara in pressing search of a temporary “new me” is just a testament to that.

Who am I kidding? When it boils down to the cold, dark facts, I just want everyone to know that I’m from New York.

Get Some Color

My adopting Manhattan’s black and navy uniform was a quick and painless process. It was also considerably cheaper once I realized all I would need for the rest of my life was one great pair of black jeans, one pair of leather pants, a few tees and about five variations on the same navy crew neck sweaters.

The uniform sort of created itself from there: one pair of black boots, one pair of dark purple loafers. Black pumps, black ballet flats. A navy coat, a black scarf. The only splashes of bright came in the form of white oxford shirts and the occasional brush of lipstick — but that had to be on a really crazy day.

I remember returning home to California one Decemeber and getting continuously asked, “Where’s the funeral?” I don’t know, buttcramp, where’s your original joke?

But the thing is, I wore this midnight color scheme with pride. It set me apart when visiting other cities that didn’t venerate an inky wardrobe. “You must be from New York,” people would comment. “No other city wears that much black at once.” I had already realized this fact and loved it. I was becoming a snob about it. I’d roll my eyes at people who wore “fun colors” during the the winter: cranberry-hued jackets? Emerald corduroys? Violet knits? The concept just seemed so overtly quaint, like a holiday-themed brooch or yellow galoshes on a rainy day.

But monochrome midnight eventually lost its novelty. I felt like a cartoon character stuck in singular-outfit purgatory — should I wear the dark shirt, or the dark shirt? –and getting dressed started to become so easy that it stopped being being fun. Singing the everygirl’s tune “I have nothing to wear” before a stable of navy sweaters just didn’t have the same dramatic, hyperbolic ring that it used to when lamenting the identical sentence to a saturated wardrobe of colorful options.

At least then I was being ridiculous. Now, it was just kind of true.

But when the Fall 2013 collections happened in February it broke my colorblind spell. Color was everywhere and I drank it in. Hot pink and yellow at Dries Van Noten! I saw green at Marc Jacobs and cobalt at Reed Krakoff! Jil Sander had punchy poppies and at Narciso, amethyst. Nothing made a statement quite like the coats (cinnamon red at Dolce, dusty blue at Carven), except for, perhaps, the surprise of Pepto wools and checked tartan.

It wasn’t that I needed a slew of runway shows to tell me it was “okay” to re-introduce color. What I did need, however, was new inspiration — something to lust after and crave, even if it was just an entry-level purchase of one very loud scarf. But that scarf became a gateway to a small palette of variety; soon I owned a Bordeaux sweater and a cerulean skirt. It’s a start!

I’m no longer afraid of a pink coat, and since white’s back on the table post-August I plan on basing a whole cold-weather wardrobe around it. (Yes, I know white is “technically a lack of color” but honestly, wouldn’t that make the pants I’m wearing now “clear”? Exactly.) Maybe I’ll aim to wear one colorful thing a day…or a week…if for no other reason than to be identifiable on Google Maps as the little red dot walking around Manhattan in a wintry sea of New York City black.