Leandra Medine's Blog, page 99

Open Thread: What’s Your Take on Open Marriage?

“What’s your take on open marriage?” a female friend, who has known me for as long as I have been wearing sequins, recently asked me via text. It took me by surprise because she is intimately familiar with the inner-workings of my definitively closed marriage. My husband and I have our stuff—the ways in which we’re willing or eager, or curious to bend—as all couples do. But opening our relationship has been such a mutual non-starter that I am fairly certain when he sees this article, he’ll ask why I bothered writing it. I would probably wonder the same.

“Why?” I asked my friend. She’s single, but dating, not seriously, but dating, and she had run into a mutual acquaintance of ours that day at a supermarket. They got to talking and he asked her out, which was jarring because the way we know him is through his wife. He could tell she was confused, self-conscious that she may have gestured or spoken in a way that suggested a misunderstood opening to initiate an extramarital exchange. He told her, without prompting: “Don’t worry! We’re in an open relationship.”

She laughed nervously, made a throwaway comment that she could not remember, and walked away, presumably to text me. The following message, also from her, spilled like word vomit: “Am I close-minded? A relic of a bygone era? How could she let him cheat? Is it ridiculous for me to think that there’s no way their marriage can last? Can you genuinely be happy when those gates are open? I don’t want to be judgmental, but I can’t help judge.”

I told her she’s not a relic of a bygone era. Her parents, who informed a lot of the policies she has adopted and absorbed as innately part of her constitution might be, but she’s from here. I told her she knows it’s not cheating if the relationship is open, that it’s not ridiculous to assume their relationship won’t last because we—both of us—have only been exposed to an “It never ends well” mentality on the topic of an open relationship. But what the hell is “ending well,” anyway? I know plenty of happy endings that are only happy because of divorce.

I told her it would be close-minded for two thinking individuals (she and me) to presume effectively anything about the motivation behind an open marriage, or behind the motivation of the motivation.

But this doesn’t mean I would choose to participate in an open relationship myself; I practically shudder every time an employee of mine takes a private phone call because I fear they’re being poached. Call it jealousy, call it paranoia—whatever. Electively putting myself in a position to both wonder what the hell my husband is getting from someone else that I can’t give him and further what I can get from elsewhere loosens the notch on the belt of matrimony in a way that makes me wonder how we could continue to see additive value in each other as opposed to sniffing out the lack we feel respectively. Marriage is hard; collective growth is an idyllic concept, but it’s also fake. He grows, I grow—sometimes simultaneously, sometimes with a lag—then we adjust to find our spoon-fit again. That adjustment period is awkward and at times and it can feel like we live on different planets. I don’t know that in the heat of this misunderstanding, stepping away to pursue understanding from another intimacy partner could help solve the larger experience (I specifically do not say “issue”) of “changing together.”

But look, I also get that to be in a relationship that permits polyamory is to change your mindset. It is to expect, to a degree, abundant thinking from yourself and your partner. There is likely even an argument to be made that the foundation of a successful open marriage is even more solid than that of a closed one—that you could give yourself so intimately to someone who is not your husband or wife but still feel most connected to them is significant. Enviable! Maybe I don’t trust myself enough to maintain that kind of knowing. Maybe, because I got married so young and bypassed dating app and hook up and even casual sex culture, I can’t see something that you might see. So, tell me, because more than anything, I am eager to talk about it. Do you, would you, have you ever participated in an open relationship?

Photo by (c)Warner Brothers via Everett Collection.

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Celeb Look of the Week: Hunter Schafer Makes a Strong Case for Fancy Socks

Welcome to Celeb Look of the Week! An MR column wherein one member of our editorial team, once a week, waxes poetic about one recently worn celeb outfit they can’t stop thinking about. For this installment, Harling examines Hunter Schafer’s impressive sock game.

Two years ago, my esteemed former colleague Amelia Diamond publicly acknowledged something we’ve probably observed for decades without fully metabolizing it: Red carpet footwear is, by and large, sleepier than a hibernating bear. Peppered with a steady stream of skin-colored high-heel sandals and basic black pumps, it has historically been a wasteland when it comes to any evidence of below-the-ankle creativity whatsoever.

Imagine my delight, then, when Hunter Schafer, of burgeoning Euphoria fame, rebelled against this widely established truth during three recent public appearances. Her choice of footwear has been interesting in its own right, from lace-up ankle booties to glossy turquoise heels, but that’s not even what I’m excited about. The source of my thrill comes from what’s inside the shoes: not just feet, but socks, too. Beautiful socks! With heels and dresses!

This styling trick is not a new one, and is actually quite popular amongst editorial stylists, bloggers, and other fashion folk, but it IS a new one on the celebrity red carpet/talk-show circuit. Or at least, it’s exceedingly uncommon, which is why it’s fun to see Hunter leaning into it with the kind of vigor that three times in close succession can handily convey.

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The first occurred on June 15th at the MTV Movie & TV awards, where she wore a long, multicolored midi dress with white lace-up heeled booties and sheer white socks. The second and third were both dispatched this week on July 23rd, by way of a pink and green outfit worthy of Blair Waldorf and the same sheer white socks, and a rainbow tinsel dress accented by a pink and purple ombre (!) pair.

Each of these outfits makes an exceptionally strong case for the idea of extra special occasion socks—socks you trot out for national press tours or, you know, your grandmother’s holiday party. Not just because they save your feet from blisters and sweat, but because they are fully and inextricably part of the LOOK (perhaps even, in some cases, the most important part). They’re also the best hack for livening up an otherwise standard red carpet ensemble since Rihanna’s tiny sunglasses at Cannes, so take note, celebs! The power of a fancy toe sweater is not to be underestimated.

Photos by David Crotty/Dominik Bindl/NBC via Getty Images.

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Low Stakes Hot Take: Dutch Twitter Is the Best Twitter

Welcome to Low Stakes Hot Take, a regular column wherein one of us shares an impassioned opinion on a seemingly random topic that probably doesn’t matter much. Or—wait—does it?

I’ve spent a decent portion of my free time, as of late, wondering what makes something funny, funny. This aimless and recreational enterprise has taken shape in various ways: reading the 800-page history of “Saturday Night Live” for fun, studying recent Netflix specials like Aziz Ansari’s new and controversial “Right Now,” alongside older sketch series like The Characters, quoting lines from Tim Robinson’s I Think You Should Leave Now back and forth with my friend Rachel, wondering who pulled the fuse on the bygone pastime of quoting movies to each other, and joining the rowdy 10pm Sunday crowd at LA’s Comedy Store.

So, imagine my surprise when I found that the Dutch, as a people, understand the most intimate secrets that I do not when it comes to deploying modern humor.

After a long Tuesday spent deteriorating my already myopic eyes one browser tab at a time, wondering if something called Shark Sauce was going to make me better-looking, and generally working myself up into a nervous wreck at the foot of my laptop, I went to a new gym in the new city where I live, and took comfort in an old routine: skimming and deleting a bunch of text-heavy e-mails while jogging in place on one of those Arc Trainer machines. It was under these circumstances that I discovered that the Dutch, in addition to “dropping” their young in the woods to fend for themselves, are very good at Twitter.

One thing you must know before we dig in: After close self-examination, it seems that my own sense of humor favors any reference that is berry-adjacent, as evidenced by the following Tweet I often return to, dating back to the medieval days of the Tr*mp administration:

executive order doing well amongst the crowd who could not control their hunger for the berries looked so sweet https://t.co/fl8mqBEEwx pic.twitter.com/CaTSzB70Wt

— Walter Hickey (@WaltHickey) January 31, 2017

Were we ever so young?

The latitude and longitude of a comedic Dutch masterpiece meet at this Tweet, where the New York Times World account shared a story on how “the Dutch do childhood differently.”

The Dutch do childhood differently. Children are taught not to depend too much on adults; adults are taught to allow children to solve their own problems. And so there is the custom of "droppings" — leaving kids in the forest to find their way home alone. https://t.co/WHkBnMREMg

— New York Times World (@nytimesworld) July 21, 2019

It all starts off unassumingly enough:

I grew up in the western part of the country, where there are hardly any forests. In those areas, your parents take you out at sea and drop you there. You have to swim several miles back to the shore. Those without any sense of direction wind up in England.

— Nationaal Gyurka Jansen (@ThE_ED) July 21, 2019

And then, a testimonial:

It's true. My parents dropped me in a forest when I was 7, I lived of berries and marihuana for 3 years. Eventually I found my way back to civilisation, but I ended up with a family I didn't know. But we've made it work and I think that is beautiful.

— Rianne Meijer (@globalistaa) July 22, 2019

It is here that the Dutch tweeters gain momentum via strength in numbers, and demonstrate their keen proclivity for riffing off of each other, a skill no doubt learned while embedded in a mosquito-laden wood where they once spooned tree sap for survival. Not a “yes, and,” in sight, and yet…

And look where it brought you! Such an independant woman

7 Women on Whether They Regret Their Cosmetic Surgery

Growing up, I associated cosmetic surgery with a quiet snicker. I only knew of those who had undergone said “vanity” surgeries by way of rumor and soured reputation. There was one student in my high school who had reportedly gotten a chin job, which led me to waste away an entire afternoon examining my jawline in my bathroom mirror. Another had supposedly undergone rhinoplasty, but claimed it was for medical reasons (peers conveyed their doubts via locker-room whisper). Allegations were vehemently denied as quickly as they were made, and my developing brain quickly made the connections between the procedures, perjury, and social punishment. Cosmetic surgery, I concluded, was something shameful.

But on a trip to Tehran, where my family originates, in 2010, I was confronted by a cultural phenomenon that both complicated and challenged my perception. It had been several years since I had been there, and shortly after stepping off the plane, I noticed that, although locals were still complying with the law of Islamic dress, the way they carried themselves felt distinctly more westernized. Locks of teased blonde hair piled up at the top of their heads and peaked out beneath headscarves. Faces of professional-grade makeup that rivaled that of the Sephora counter poured into the bazaars. But perhaps most notably, many women strutted down the street sporting bandages slapped across their noses, as if wearing a badge of honor.

“Fixing your nose is very common here,” a young woman named Fereshteh told me. “Everybody wants to do it. Everybody wants to be beautiful.” I found myself perplexed—were these Iranian women using rhinoplasty as a means of exercising autonomy, rendering cosmetic surgery a dignified act? Or were they further submitting to a capitalist industry that seeks to assimilate their appearance with the ideals of a society and culture that isn’t their own?

When I got home, the questions lingered. Today, in the west, cosmetic surgery remains stigmatized, but the norms are shifting. And as the conversation broadens to include those who both publicly embrace and malign it, it occupies a sort of moral ambiguity. Some claim it’s a radical act of autonomy, a methodology for combating insecurity and improving self-esteem. Others see it as a rejection of self-acceptance, which acquiesces to a system that holds women to an exceedingly high and narrow standard. Does it place a costly price tag on self-worth, both literal and psychological, which not all women can afford? Or is it simply another form of self-care? Curious to unpack the complexities behind the decision to go under the knife, I spoke with seven women about their experiences getting vanity surgery.

Nicole, 25

I received a breast augmentation when I was 19. Most of the women in my family have had some sort of cosmetic procedure, so it felt like a rite of passage. I also grew up in South Florida in a Latin culture, where the most beautiful women were often the curviest. I never felt comfortable in my skin. Every time I shopped for dresses or blouses, there was a space where my breasts should have been.

When you tell someone about the procedure, sometimes that’s all they see. When an old boyfriend found out, he told me that he needed to think about whether or not we could still date. I’ve always felt a little shame explaining my reasons for undergoing surgery in a relationship because it means leading with vulnerability. If you’re rejected, it can feed your insecurities. Selfishly, it can feel good when people say they’re jealous [of my breasts], not knowing they’ve been enhanced. I was surprised by how quickly they felt like a part of me. Looking back, I’m glad I did it because it made me feel like a woman for the first time, as if I could begin to understand the power and strength of my sexuality. Have I ever felt any regret? Completely, but that’s human nature.

Alice, 22

I had a mole removed from my philtrum three weeks shy of my 18th birthday — I wore bandages at my party. From an early age, I knew parts of me didn’t align with my identity, including a noticeable mole above my upper lip. To me, the procedure was no different from getting braces: A method of self-improvement. The surgery was utterly painless and superbly performed—It took about 10 minutes. I wasn’t allowed to remove the bandages right away, which meant I was unable to see the results. I was instructed to avoid direct sunlight, as well as laughing too hard, for fear of prolonging my recovery. The product was better than I could have hoped for. I consider the surgery, without any shadow of a doubt, one of the very best things I have ever done and I have never, not for one moment, regretted it. It wasn’t an operation for the rest of the world; it was for myself.

I feared that altering my body would make me a bad feminist. The societal narrative was that my appearance should be inconsequential to the way I live my life. But as much as I would theoretically like that to be true, I knew that my appearance was impacting me negatively. In the years following my surgery, my understanding of feminism developed. To me, feminism exists as a binary: You either subscribe to it or you don’t. The decision I made was personal. It was my body, and therefore, my choice.

Sabrina*, 31

I underwent rhinoplasty at 16. I had been bullied and was very self-conscious. According to family lore, many relatives had gotten nose jobs—including my great-grandmother. When I brought it up to my parents, they were immediately on board. Looking back, that makes me sad. Before the surgery, I remember my dad asking, “Why did we let you do this?” When I woke up from the anesthesia, I immediately threw up, which wasn’t fun with a recently broken and stitched up nose. I had black eyes, wore a splint on my nose for weeks, and had gauze and stitches in my nostrils. When I removed the splint, my nose was so swollen.

I wish I could tell my younger self that appearance shouldn’t be the end-all, be-all.

A week later, my boyfriend broke up with me, but I didn’t want him to see me while I was recovering [anyway]. Everyone else was very supportive, at least to my (bruised and swollen) face. It’s strange how many people commented on my big, pre-nose-job nose, but didn’t say anything after the surgery. Now, I often get told that I don’t look like I’ve gotten my nose done, which people mean as a compliment but implies judgment of those who have. I also get told that I don’t look Jewish. What does it mean to “look Jewish”? There are plenty of Jews who look nothing like me, whose families are not from Eastern Europe. It makes me think about “passing” and the advantages and disadvantages of being a hidden minority. It goes to show how much we internalize self-hatred. Today, I wear my Star of David necklace to announce my heritage and Jewish pride. But I recognize that It’s a privilege to be able to choose.

I am still happy that I did it, but I do think about my reasons. It saddens me that I felt the need to fix something about myself to feel worthy and that so much of my view of myself is still wrapped up in my appearance. I wish I could tell my younger self that appearance shouldn’t be the end-all, be-all, but that’s something I still haven’t absorbed.

Julie, 30

I had breast reduction surgery when I was 24. I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and do a double-take. I did all I could to minimize my breast’s appearance: sports bras, oversized clothing, etc. Nothing worked. When I first heard about the surgery, it was such a lightbulb moment. A well-documented medical history of back pain made me eligible for 100% insurance coverage.

During my last consult, my doctor said, “Most people would kill for your breasts.” I cried walking into surgery, but the team was so fun. The last thing I remember was fading out to Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.” The recovery was pretty gruesome. I panicked removing the bandages. For months, I was a bloody, bruised mess. But the most torturous part—by far—was my nipple sensitivity. It was tediously irritating, to the point of nausea. Some women lose sensitivity altogether.

I was prepared for the “anchor” incision, but not how long it would take for the scars to feel like part of me. My boyfriend, now-husband, was afraid to touch me for years; the scars were a barrier between us. There are still moments of self-consciousness, like when I wear a bathing suit and am constantly readjusting to conceal scars. You could even spot them in my wedding dress. But I’m learning to own them, one day at a time. I have no regrets—yet. I worry that I may feel extremely guilty if I struggle with breastfeeding someday. My doctor explained to me that only 30% of women provide full nutrition via breastfeeding and that even without surgery, I could fall within that 70% who need to supplement. I’ll never know where I stood pre-surgery.

I am a super feminist. I strongly believe that women shouldn’t alter their appearance to fit within the male gaze that directs our patriarchal society. I did not undergo surgery to standardize my image—I think I unconsciously did so, in part, to turn away from it, because my big breasts invited unwanted and uncomfortable attention. I felt so detached from my reflection that it was harmful to my confidence. I needed to build a healthier relationship with myself. However, I recognize that there is a super-fine line between utilizing modern surgery to enhance one’s self-image and taking drastic measures to “fix yourself.” I believe it’s important to ask yourself “Why?” If you have struggled with feeling disconnected from a physical part of your body, I support you! Women need to empower each other while recognizing that we are autonomous decision-makers who know what is best for ourselves.

Marissa*, 26

I received a jaw surgery when I was 18. My orthodontist encouraged me to fix my bite—he emphasized it would make me prettier. This made me feel hideous, and in turn, unlovable. When I learned that I could eliminate my biggest insecurity, I was overjoyed. It was covered by my family’s insurance. The procedure took place in a city several hundred miles from my hometown, and I spent one night in the hospital. I remember fainting when trying to use the bathroom. The recovery was without a doubt the most physically unpleasant experience of my life. The discomfort was constant and seemingly endless. I drooled all over myself because I had not yet regained feeling in my chin. Thinking of food made me nauseous, so eating was near impossible. My head was enormous from swelling. To this day, when it’s cold, I feel a strange numbness in my chin.

When I looked at the “before” and “after” photos, the stark difference delighted me. Before, I constantly thought about how other people saw me, but I have no recollection of anyone’s reaction post-surgery. I felt beautiful to myself for the first time in my adolescent life, so I didn’t even need the affirmation of others—for a while. It’s been nearly 10 years, and I continue to wear a retainer every single night because I am terrified that my chin will revert back. My long face is still my biggest insecurity. I now realize that I am extremely privileged in many ways, but I still care about my appearance as much as I did when I was a teenager. If I could change one thing about myself, I would change the way I look to be more in line with what society deems to be “beautiful.” From what I’ve observed, being prettier means life is easier. Most people are image-obsessed, and will immediately like you more, which opens all kinds of doors.

When my boyfriend takes a picture of me, I want to pose confidently. I want to look at the photographs of myself and think, “Everyone would agree: This person is beautiful.”

Sarah, 35

I received liposuction on my thighs and hips when I was 18. I was a competitive tumbler from the age of five, and much of my body insecurity arose from being immersed in toxic training culture. My coach was psychologically abusive, withholding praise and verbally berating me if I didn’t perform at his optimal level. I was routinely told that my frame was too tall and large to compete as a gymnast. This haunted me. I experienced puberty early and grew resentful of how my body had differentiated itself from that of my peers. I felt trapped, so I sublimated that anger into a need to control my scholastic achievements. But chasing perfection led to increased anxiety and depression, and my parents offered me the opportunity to have liposuction, in a self-identified “problem area,” as a Hail Mary to alleviate my unhappiness.

The memories of the surgical consultation still linger. My surgeon used a marker to outline the areas of my thighs where fat deposits could be removed. He explained to me that if I gain too much weight, the effects of surgery would be nullified, and I internalized his words as an invitation to gaze even more critically at my body. The recovery process was bizarre. The swelling in my legs was so painful that I once fainted on my way to the bathroom. I found the shape-wear girdle that I had to wear 24-hours a day for the first month infantilizing and humiliating. My parents’ guilt for encouraging me was palpable. The faint incision marks were startling. I felt alarmed that I had been willing to put my body through this. I questioned the success of the surgery then and continue to question it now.

I now regard my personal experience with cosmetic surgery as an act of self-violence.

It’s been 17 years, and I ache for my parents, the helplessness they must have felt watching me suffer. I hurt for my teenage self. I feel a mixture of anger and empathy for the surgeon, who did not know how to effectively communicate with young women. I feel unspeakable sorrow that cosmetic surgery became one more building block in the foundation of my disordered eating, the ramifications of which have included lasting consequences for my health. I’ve found that living with regret does not serve my well-being. It’s hard to be judgemental of my younger self and her pain; all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and tell her she is safe and loved. I now regard my personal experience with cosmetic surgery as an act of self-violence. Most days, I am even able to feel a bit of gratitude, as my surgery led to a lesson in self-acceptance and self-love, which I’ve slowly been learning over the last five years.

Elaine, 26

I received blepharoplasty, or eyelid surgery, when I was 17. I first learned about the procedure from my parents. I had tried using a surgical tape specifically designed to mimic a “double” eyelid, which had both intrigued and freaked me out. My mom decided to take me with her on a trip to Seoul to visit family, and brought me to a consultation. At the time, I was just curious. But my mom had undergone surgery and I always thought she was the most beautiful person. Maybe, I thought, I could look like her.

I was sedated but gained consciousness during the surgery. I opened my eyes and experienced an uncomfortable tugging. For a couple of months, my eyelids were swollen and I had to wear sunglasses to hide my eyes from the sunlight. [Once I healed,] I was surprised by how much I liked how I looked. My parents told me that they would have made my eyes even bigger. I grew up thinking that Western beauty was the ideal standard—big eyes, porcelain skin, high nose bridge, and cheekbones—because that’s how beauty is marketed in Korea. I felt embarrassed that some might see my decision as a sign that I was ashamed of how I looked, or a desire to look more white. But I’ve never felt any regret. One time, in middle school, a friend’s younger brother asked if I saw smaller because of my eyes, and I still think about it. I think there were so many tiny moments like that growing up.

Korean culture is very different. Almost all K-pop stars have had reconstructive facial surgery—it’s even given to some as a reward for graduating from school. Sometimes, people go on first dates and bring a “before photo,” just so their date can know what to expect if they were to have kids.

Luckily, the narrative has begun to shift to include more diversity in fashion, beauty, ad campaigns, movies, and TV. I’m glad that different looks are being celebrated. Everyone has their own perception of beauty now. Not everyone has a singular idea of how that should look. I can see a version of myself and my race being regarded as beautiful. Previously, that wasn’t necessarily the case.

*Names have been changed and interviews have been edited for clarity and length.

Graphic by Madeline Montoya.

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Ask MR: I Need Space From My Boyfriend. How Do I Tell Him?

Hello and welcome to our advice column, Ask MR, where we answer your burning questions, hoping we’ll become the ointment to your life rash. Ask us a question by sending one of us a DM, emailing write@manrepeller.com with the subject line “ASK MR A QUESTION,” or simply leaving one in the comments.

“I’ve been with my boyfriend for a year (the longest I’ve ever been in a relationship) and being around him the amount that I normally am is starting to be too much for me. How do I explain that I need my alone time and some space without sounding rude or like I want to break up?”

Right now my boyfriend is working on his computer with his headphones on. I’m not sure what he’s doing, because he’s not speaking to me and I’m not speaking to him. We’ve been like this for over an hour, and it will continue until one of us gets hungry or feels lonely and throws a sock at the other. These little windows of pseudo-solitude are important to us. We try to make time for them every week, if not every day. Sometimes we make time for them even when we aren’t in the mood, because we know there are consequences for non-stop togetherness just like there are consequences for non-stop busyness or overstimulation or too much of anything, ever.

It can be hard to remember this—that we all need time and space away from things we love. Or even that our lives demand a broader balance we aren’t always privy to, even if we feel it in our guts. This can be especially hard to remember in matters of romance, which are steeped in traditions that reinforce the idea that true love always connects and never separates. That we never need space if we’re in love. I mean, consider those words: “need space”—they’re practically modern-day slang for dissatisfaction. She needs space to figure out what she wants. He’s taking space to decide if he loves her. It’s no wonder you’re worried that using these words will hurt your boyfriend.

But it’s important to remember that independence and personal agency are critical pillars of any healthy relationship. Needing time apart from my boyfriend doesn’t negate the fact that I prefer him to most people, and generally think he’s the best. It just means I’m a human with human needs, like everyone else. Falling in love, especially in those first intoxicating months, can make us forget this. We lose ourselves, and for good reason: It feels transformative, like the melding of two souls and the dissolution of the self. But that level of self-sacrifice isn’t sustainable over time. Eventually, it has to become something else lest it devolve into codependence. Perhaps you and your boyfriend are transitioning into a new era. One where your needs as independent humans—for friendship and solitude and creativity—are returning in fuller force. If that’s true, I think there’s no more worthy relationship hurdle than learning to communicate those with each other, and respect them in kind.

Love and desire are two different things—one requiring closeness, the other requiring separateness

I’ve always understood that sometimes I had needs my partners couldn’t meet, but it wasn’t until I read Mating in Captivity by psychotherapist Esther Perel that I began to see those needs as liable to strengthen my relationships rather than burden them. In her view, love and desire are two different things—one requiring closeness, the other requiring separateness—and a thriving relationship includes both. Inherent in that truth is the fact that two people can never completely know or have or complete each other, and this tension creates distance which breeds desire. “Love is about having,” she writes, “desire is about wanting… But too often, as couples settle into the comforts of love, they cease to fan the flame of desire. They forget that fire needs air.”

When Avi and I decided to move in, the question of how to not suffocate each other was top of mind. Further enmeshing ourselves in each other’s lives was one of our main goals of cohabitating, yes, but we knew it would come at a cost. So we agreed early on to check in on each other’s needs often and without offense taken. Because communicating our desire for alone time or friend time isn’t an indictment of our relationship, it’s an important part of bringing our full selves to it. No amount of love or affection or “rightness” will ever change the fact that we’re two, complex separate entities. As Rainer Maria Rilke once put it, “the highest task of a bond between two people [is] that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.”

So try talking to your boyfriend about some of this stuff. Tell him that you love being around him (it sounds like you do), but that you need some time to nurture your independence, too. Tell him you’re nervous about your desires being misinterpreted, but that you hope he believes you when you say your need for space is not code for dissatisfaction—and in fact it’s an expression of your hope that your relationship evolves and grows as you do. And remember that asking him for this means staying open to his needs, too. These aren’t the moments that stress a relationship, they’re the moments that test them. If you both approach this with candor and compassion, I have no doubt you’ll be stronger for it.

Ask MR Identity by Madeline Montoya

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How Different Is Your Interior Style From Your Fashion Sense? (And Tips to Find Yours)

I

 have rented my dwellings for the last seven years, but only last year did it start to feel like my home reflected me. When you walk into it, a red wall with columns of stacked elephants and palm trees greet you. There is a table under the wall, over which sit four white ceramic vases and a set of open hands. On the dining table, there’s a wooden bowl with marble fruit in it. My couches have been updated by brightly colored, cashmere animals. They belong to my daughters, but I like them for decor. A large white shelving wall carries color-coded books, both read and not, and if I had to describe it a certain way, I’d call it, I don’t know, chaotic.

When I set out to create the mood board for my living quarters, I called it “Scandinavian minimalist.” What I actually meant, it seems, was eclectic. Clutterful, but neat. What I got was eclectic, too: intentional and organized, but still slightly deranged. It’s kind of like the way I dress, and definitely the way I think. Some days, I wish I’d meant it when I said, “Scandinavian minimalist.” I wish my apartment looked less like the way I dress and more like a timeless black dress, which sits in my closet and comforts me, but which I rarely actually wear.

Lately, I’ve been looking at the apartment. As I grow up and my taste changes and I recognize that I am impulsive as hell–that I have packaged the noncommital parts of me as a sort of deliberate refusal to put myself in a box, I also realize that if you are not nuanced about the way you approach experimentation, you might end up with velvet armchairs, and a huge red wall, and gold legs under a love seat but nary a single black dress to relieve you. I could have done it differently. Perhaps less expensively. How was I to know! Isn’t home style just like fashion style? A game of trial and error?

Photo provided by Matilda Goad

To this, Matilda Goad, the interiors wiz who is best-known for the scallop trim lampshades she began selling by word of mouth in 2017, would say, “Be true to who you are.” As a matter of fact, she did say it. Followed by, uh, the truth. “If you are a messy person (like me) with lots of stuff, a minimalist home with little storage is never going to be your friend. It’s hard nowadays when we are plied with imagery on Pinterest and IG to know what is you but I think the more time you take to think about taste, more financial commitments pay off.”

I started following her on Instagram about a year ago; her taste struck me as whimsical and joyful. It didn’t take itself seriously, but it wasn’t a joke either. Her photos showed off delicate, deliberate placements; pieces pulled together over time–lovingly, but laboriously, like any good personal style. “When it comes to clothing, I am far less interested in the shell, but have countless coats, boots, and accessories. It’s about how my belt is knotted or how the layers of chains around my neck sit and this is very much how I style a room; I tend to push the boundaries with balance.”

And — I wondered. Goad, thankfully, answered.

A sofa is something you should have for life, says Goad. So first: Invest in good furniture

This does not mean expensive furniture, but good quality. “I scour the internet for sales of display pieces and use eBay to search for recognizable design house names. Sofas are usually easy to pick up for nothing–I found a Conran sofa for 150£. I upholstered it in cherry red clothing corduroy. Mid-market sofas that are still expensive aren’t comfortable and you’ll end up paying more to get it taken away.”

Personal touches transform your home, so add layers

“I love buying pieces on holiday—lengths of fabric that can be turned into cushions or draped over the back of a sofa. I bought a huge crochet throw at a flea market in Rome for 30£ that lives on my bed and totally elevates the room. In fact, I think beds are often very overlooked – you spend money on the surrounding areas and then you have a huge white rectangle in the middle of the room! Splash out on the two exposed pillowcases as the priority.”

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The fragile table; Packing time pre and post work before moving this weekend..

For $27,000, You Can Own This Khaki Suit

Recently, during a routine sleuthing through the “Just In” tab on Matchesfashion, I noticed a new featured seller, “William Vintage,” boasting collector items from designers like Dior, Versace, and Givenchy. Most of the displayed pieces come with notorious stories attached to them: The Tom Ford Gucci sex dress from 1998, for example; boob cup couture by ’93 Versace; and a handful of some of the most iconic Yves Saint Laurent moments in the house’s history. There’s a 3-piece “Le Smoking ” suit from 1991 categorized as “One of a Kind.” A hooded velvet cape. An iterative rendering of the original Safari collection, dated 1990, and a true set from the widely-referenced-as-groundbreaking ’68 collection.

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This outfit—the one from ’68—is on sale for $27,291.

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Let me write that again: The outfit is on sale for $27,291. That is like, the price of a brand! new! car! A down payment on a small home! More than a decades’ worth of daily artisanal lattes! I’m not sure that someone will deign to fork over the incredibly high price for the outfit, but I am positive that someone will consider it. Someone who genuinely believes their wardrobe to be a collection of art. Or a costume institute curator–unclear. But the price got me thinking about the broader fashion conversation as it pertains to sustainability.

I am, by no means, an expert on the topic of sustainability, but I think that culturally, we are doing a pretty good job at both identifying a need for change in the practices of the fashion industry and subsequently insisting that the change take place. As a byproduct, tons of new brands with a conscious tilt have sprouted. Old favorites have started to change their practices and almost everyone has something to say about their clothes being ethically produced. The brands employ local artisans, are slow to develop, don’t utilize animal products and so forth.

But the fact remains that they’re being made and thereby making demands of the environment that might actually run counter to what their respective brand identities embody. This is a sweeping generalization, make no mistake, and I am not suggesting that no new product come into the marketplace. Not at all! I love new stuff! But as far as I am concerned, the most truly sustainable way to shop is to to buy shit you will be tempted to keep forever.

According to a pretty thorough dive into the different forms of sustainable fashion, the seven key attributes include: rental, upcycling, custom-made, “green and clean,” timeless design, fair and ethical, and secondhand. The kind of “shit you’re tempted to keep forever” (assuming they fall from the trees of genuine luxury brands like Brunello Cucinelli or Chanel) overlap with the highest number of these attributes. The design is timeless, the quality is good. Sometimes they’re custom-made (like in the case, for example, of a 1968 safari suit), and many quality-first luxury brands are ethical to the extent that their artisans are purportedly compensated satisfactorily (there is debate on this particularly clause), and propose the supposition that a secondary market, or rental system (which, by the way, requires so much dry cleaning that wastes so much water…), will command value for the item in question.

Again, I am by no means an expert on the topic, but the weighty price tag affixed to the vintage suit substantiated this theory I have been harboring. And by the way, I totally get that very few people can afford Chanel or Hermès or Manolo Blahnik or The Row at retail; I get that these brands may not speak to the personal style notes of everyone, point-blank, but there are brands that we each align with, right? And there are, now more than ever, vast tricks that have lowered the barrier for acquisition on these luxury items. So while there is no way I could justify spending so much money on a single outfit, I love what the price tag represents: the possibility, even probability that clothes are not disposable or frivolous, that they’re more than just clothes. More than that, they’re collections of stories and memories and feelings, as important as any other physical talisman we deem significant and everlasting.

Feature photo via The Musée Yves Saint Laurent Paris.

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5 Slip Dresses and a Million Ways to Wear Them

Figuring out what to wear when it’s this hot and you’re just a tiny bit bored of shorts and a tank tops can be a real conundrum. Fortunately for my overheated brain cells, Edith wrote this story about wearing linen pajamas during the day, a fantastic solution for warm weather dressing because linen is so breathable. It got me thinking about another member of the pajama-adjacent family: slip dresses! In my experience, they’re versatile enough to wear to a wedding or a bodega, depending on how you style them. To test this thesis, I enlisted my favorite creative dresser, Crystal Betcha-Didn’t-Think-of-That Anderson to style FIVE slips TEN ways with me. Scroll down to see the results.

The Tissue-Thin Slip That Feels Like Air

These slips from Wolf & Badger are pretty short (almost more of a shirt length), which makes them interesting fodder to style with. They’re also tissue-thin to the extent that you almost can’t feel them on your body–what a gift for 90-degree weather, huh? Crystal styled hers with board shorts and lace-up sandals–boyish additions to balance out the slip’s femininity. I wore mine with linen trousers and clogs because I wanted to add some weight to the silhouette of the outfit since the slip is so light. Crystal and I both felt naked in the best of ways.

The Sheer Slip That Lets What’s Underneath Do the Talking

I love a totally sheer slip dress, because it’s really fun to play with which you wear under it. Leandra recently wore this outfit, which inspired me to put these Dries knit shorts (are these even considered shorts?) underneath this Commando mesh slip. To frame the lace on top, I covered my chest with a knit tube top in a color that coordinated with my shorts. The addition of gold lace-up block heel sandals elevated the outfit to something beyond simply “hanging out in my underwear,” so to speak. Crystal layered an oversized T-shirt as a dress under her slip and tied a blue shirt around her hips. With sneakers as the final touch, the overall effect was quite casual–a nice contrast to the sheer slip’s lingerie-esque connotations, and thrillingly different from my own approach.

The Classic Slip With a High Slit

These DANNIJO slip dresses are rendered in a deliciously luxurious, slinky silk, with plenty of rich jewel colors to choose from (they also have a tie dye!). The high slit on the side offers an interesting degree of versatility: While Crystal showed some leg, I tied up the skirt so it morphed into more of a tunic length. I wore knit YanYan bike shorts under with a matching short sleeve kimono cardigan, both coordinating with the sapphire color of the slip. I added these Clergerie x Both hiking boots–which, by the way, are perhaps the most comfortable boots I’ve ever put on my feet–to anchor my outfit with something chunky.

The Fishtail Slip That Kisses Your Ankles

Réalisation Par has a slew of slip dresses, but I was immediately drawn these gold ones with a subtle print. How fun is the fishtail hem!? It prevents the slip from looking too much like lingerie. Crystal and I both layered white tops underneath–Crystal’s an oversized T-shirt and mine a knit white polo. I love how Crystal slung one strap down to make the slip look one-shouldered. Her hat and pool slides transform the outfit into an ideal beach-to-dinner transition look. I added Ked’s and a polo to dress this otherwise fancy ensemble down, and a Repeller scarf as a hair-kerchief.

The Drawstring Slip That Shape-Shifts Like a Pro

This slip has a drawstring that lets you scrunch the hem up on one side, which might be why it was Crystal’s and my favorite of the bunch. Crystal ballooned her yellow version out of a pair of A-Line shorts, while I matched my tie-dyed one to bleached jeans. We both felt called to utilize our heads as the proverbial cherry on top: she went for buns, I went for a headband.

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And that’s that! Over pants, tucked into shorts, tied up, slung down…the options definitely don’t even end there. Let me know how you’d style a slip dress in the comments. I’ll be there to answer any and all questions as well (unless you’re asking how to fix a toilet, because last week I discovered the limitations of my resourcefulness in that particular area).

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Photos by Laerke Rose. 

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Would You “Renegotiate” Your Relationship Every Year?

In season five, episode five of Broad City, Ilana and Lincoln celebrate their anniversary by going to dinner and holding their “annual renegotiations”—a process that involves wine, cocktail attire, and two padfolios. The scene opens with Ilana referring to her notes. “Moving on with the proceedings: I would like to look at the next article, which is a suspension period in monogamy,” she says. “If we are going to do this for another beautiful year I would like to make out with…five…ty…fifty people.”

“Ilana,” says Lincoln. “Two. And I have to know about them.”

“Okay, dooooooope! I mean, deal,” says Ilana. “Communication is dope.”

The scene is funny because actors Ilana Glazer and Hannibal Buress have perfect timing—at one point Lincoln says he wants to get married and Ilana replies, “Lincoln I’m 27. What am I? A child bride?” And also because it’s absurd: They’re celebrating their anniversary with legal jargon and emotional bargaining. It’s Hallmark heresy, and yet, something about it feels aspirational. Maybe not in a literal sense—the padfolios were a bit much—but their commitment to being honest with each other is romantic in its own way. And even though the discussion doesn’t end up going exactly as planned, months later, I’m still thinking about the fact that it happened at all.

The scene returned to the forefront of my mind a few months later, while I was reading a memoir by Claire Dederer called Love & Trouble. In it, she talks about how her 15-year marriage is great—still full of lively banter and passionate sex—and yet she has become a bit bored. And not just in her relationship, but in her life, too. She wants for something else, for novelty, for anything. This sense of ennui haunts her, because didn’t she do everything right? Go for the passion job, find a good guy, nurture her friendships, raise nice kids? But as she settles into middle age, she can’t seem to stop crying.

This is all casually covered in the first few pages, which I found so alarming I sat straight up in bed. The idea that a life so thoughtfully lived could land you in this kind of emotional purgatory descended upon me like a bad dream. The more I read, the harder it became to skirt the question us mortals are supposed to avoid: Why even try if all the right moves can leave you in inexplicable tears? (Of course, the answer has something to do with the journey, but show me a person who doesn’t care where their journey takes them and I’ll show you my meditation practice.)

I zipped through the rest of the book in two days, then called a family meeting.

“Avi,” I said to my boyfriend. He was stretching on the floor, I was above him on the couch. “Remember that renegotiation meeting Ilana and Lincoln have in Broad City? I think we should do something like that too.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling a little. “Still freaking out about that book?”

“Yes!” I said. Love & Trouble was sitting in my lap. I held it up and shook it a little. “This woman Claire and her husband have this great relationship, and they still end up feeling trapped. At one point she goes to this party and meets another writer who is notorious for cheating on his wife, and she lets him kiss her. And she’s totally exhilarated. Not even because she likes him, but because he’s new. And before the kiss happened she was drawing all these comparisons between her and this man—about how they may feel the same boredom but he acts on it and she doesn’t, and then I thought to myself: What’s the difference, really? Just action? Is imagining kissing someone really so much more noble than doing it? Why does the sanctity of marriage come down to your ability to not press your mouth to someone else’s when doing so could actually make your marriage so much better because all you needed was one fucking second of novelty?”

I took a breath. He looked at me. “Are you saying you want an open relationship?”

“No, no, no.” I looked crazed. We both started to laugh. This wasn’t about my current desires, I assured him, it was about concern for our future. I was (and am) afraid of letting our good relationship become a trap by the simple means of assuming it won’t. How could we make sure to not let that happen? Constant communication? Annual renegotiation? A willingness to always endeavor to understand each other even if it meant accepting that we couldn’t always be what the other person needed?

It sounded like I was denouncing monogamy, I knew that, but I wasn’t really talking about sex. I was talking about the kind of complacency that flourishes when you blindly subscribe to someone else’s ideas—like that “love is all you need”—even when those ideas eventually depart from your own and start to make you feel ashamed of yourself. I’m sure everyone who has been through divorce at one point assumed it wouldn’t happen to them, for instance, so couldn’t that happen to us?

“I just want to be with someone who is down to revisit the rules every once in a while,” I told Avi. “And I don’t just mean sex rules—I mean all the little assumptions we make about what it means to be in a long-term partnership. It may be that we never want to change anything! But at least then we’ll feel empowered by our choices rather than controlled by someone else’s, you know?”

“I’m in,” he said. “I totally agree.” And we proceeded to have our first official relationship check-in, and I was reminded why I like him so much, and he was reminded of who he is dating, which is a mildly anxious person who’s obsessed with trying to learn from other people’s mistakes, even though she knows it doesn’t always work that way. Luckily, he’s a bit like that too.

Of course, it’s easier to commit to honesty than to carry it out over the course of many years—and by presuming radical communication can allay all of love’s challenges, you run the risk of assuming that emotions aren’t complicated, and that preserving a relationship is as simple as telling the truth. But in the case of Ilana and Lincoln, their negotiations lead to their demise. Instead of helping them navigate their incompatibilities, it brings them to their logical end. And while they may accept that with a sad smile, coming to terms with these things can be gut-wrenching in real life.

It’s a good reminder that there is no avoiding pain, ever, even if you make all the “right” moves. Maybe one day Avi and I will end up feeling bored, just like Claire, despite our best efforts. Maybe Claire ended up feeling bored despite her best efforts. But what her midlife crisis and Ilana and Lincoln’s negotiations showed me is that there is an undeniable grace to admitting you’re not where or who you thought you’d be. And the real mistake is plugging your ears to that.

There’s an insidiousness to assumptions left unchecked over time, and romantic love—maybe more than any other facet of life aside from our relationship to ourselves—seems particularly susceptible to it. There is so much social and financial capital surrounding the idea of true love lasting forever. But maybe what we really need is the foresight to assume otherwise. To be active rather than passive where the rules of love are concerned—and renegotiate when necessary.

Feature photo by Matt Peyton/Comedy Central. 

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*Of Course* Orange Wine Is the Official Beverage of Our Times

For years, I assigned wine connoisseurs to one of two distinct categories: restaurateurs and assholes.

That was long before barrel-aged grapes earned their prominent share of real estate along the hypebeast frontier. Now, as something of a postscript to the variety of wine snobbery practiced by your college French professor, the whole being-into-wine thing has received a facelift. Somewhere between obscure pickle plates and pseudo-corrective Givenchy sneakers, a culinary movement has boldly fermented: Orange wine.

Call it a renaissance, a wine revolution, a hipster shtick—all the same, we’re watching crops of new and natural wine bars dot our culinary heat maps by the handful. And joining whites, reds, and rosés on nearly all of their menus, is none other than orange.

As a recent convert to the church of orange wine, I can personally attest to the fact that I’ve spent far more time infatuated with wine people than I have with wine itself. But as a trend, orange wine has spread beyond the niche gastronomy influencer circuit, trickling its way from the broader Internet Person community down to people like me—a proud believer in the judge-a-wine-by-its-label doctrine. It would seem that this particular contagion runs deeper than a generational palette shift or an insular culinary movement. Connoisseurs or not, we’re all beginning to think differently about what—and how—we consume. Orange wine is just the prologue.

On a technical level, an orange wine is simply a white wine crafted like a red. One of the reasons a Cab Sauv has so much more body than say, a White Zinfandel, is because red grapes are processed with the skins on, while lighter grapes typically aren’t. (If you’ve heard someone insufferable shout the phrase “skin-contact!” at a waiter, this has nothing to do with combat sports and everything to do with the way grape skins alter a wine’s flavor profile.) For a wine to earn the “orange” signifier, white grapes are macerated with the skins on, infusing the wine with all the tannins and flavor notes we associate with a red—and thus dying the stuff some variation of a musky orange.

Present interest aside, orange wine itself is not a new phenomenon. Georgians and other Central Europeans have been producing and importing the stuff en masse for over 8,000 years—which begs the question: In 2019, how did orange wine become “cool”?

Most classic connoisseurs—all of whom we can assume wear monocles and velvet dinner jackets—are still wedded to the vintage bordeauxes of the world. Often, they’re not interested in the so-called lazy or less refined process that is white skin-maceration, no matter how far back it dates. So it makes sense that, in the grand tradition of counter culture, the current-day wine drinker in jorts and Nike Cortez’ would be very into those things. Orange wine is the beverage equivalent of wearing a sock-and-sandal combo so heinous it qualifies as fashion. You might call it the scumbro of wines.

“There are lots of guests who ask if it’s made from citrus,” says Justin Chearno, Wine Director and Partner at The Four Horsemen, a beloved Williamsburg wine bar most known for its prominent cameo in Master of None. “It’s important to note that there’s no singular flavor to orange wine. There are wines that are very tropical, wines that are super tannic, acidic, some that taste like sour beer or kombucha, some that are reminiscent of apple cider and some that you would swear were red wines if you didn’t see the color when you were drinking.”

While orange wines have been a subset of The Four Horsemen menu since the spot opened its doors four years ago, Chearno says more and more people arrive at the bar with an interest in, and an understanding of, what they’re actually looking for in the realm of orange wine.

His personal favorite is Dario Princnic, whose wines “taste somehow ancient and contemporary at the same time.” Perhaps that’s part of the magic of orange wine: it’s an antiquated tradition, but rebranded and made interesting—even to the more angsty, apathetic millennials so lovingly disparaged in mainstream media. For all the ways Pete Davidson gave stature in high fashion to the classic Champion hoodie, orange wine—long ignored by aficionados—turns a timeless thing on its head.

“Customers ask us daily for orange wines,” says Lorena Ascencios, head buyer at Astor Wines, one of New York’s largest and most comprehensive wine and spirits vendors. Currently, the shop holds 24 different orange wine varietals, all of which sell out without fail. “The interest is tremendous,” she says. “If we had more, more would surely sell.”

I might also add—to mostly everyone’s chagrin—that the stuff is now available at Aldi for $5.99.

“We have this whole desire for recognition based on our taste,” says Lizzie Noonan, a woman I often describe socially as my “wine friend.” We’re eating cornichons and drinking from plastic cups on a blanket in Fort Greene Park. Tavo Dam—another friend who, like Lizzie, holds court in the upper echelons of Food and Drink PR—has selected the wine. Naturally, it’s orange: a Sicilian Praruar from Il Censo. “Right,” he agrees. “And especially here, and especially with millennials, everyone wants to be different, so they try to set themselves apart from the whole old-school wine tradition while still asserting their high-brow taste.”

The wine isn’t funky per se, but it’s a deep orange, deeper than most. It’s light and nuanced and acidic. Imagine Sunny D, sans synthetic sugars, crafted by old Italian wine wizards. Neither fully white nor red, it hangs in a peculiar in-between space—the flavor equivalent of that slippery window before Sunday melts from a fixture of the weekend into Monday’s preamble. Think: Fort Greene terroir with hints of Bed-Stuy. Notes of Kurt Vile. Pairs well with not knowing what time it is.

“We have a new wave of customers seeking experiential wine” says Chris Leon, the man behind cult-favorite Clinton Hill wine shop, Leon & Sons. “Wine thats either new to their favored category or reimagining what that category means. Many times orange wine is both of those things.“

There’s something apt about labeling orange wine as experiential. It urges us to write down the signifiers that come from certain vineyards, whether or not we identify as “wine people.” It demands a little involvement—a little more attentiveness to the experience that is consumption. To taste something—actually taste it—is a rare act of presence. For the amount we consume, it’s unfortunate how little time we spend tasting.

It’s not surprising that there is cachè in presenting your wine vocabulary over dinner, especially when it’s one as nuanced as orange wine calls for. What is surprising, instead, is the wine itself.

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