Sick Style, Shit Weather

I meant what I tweeted yesterday. I am one snow storm away from high tailing it the fuck out of New York. I actually think in the tweet I called this place a bullshit city which I will probably feel really remorseful about come May but right now, New York, you are very truly and sincerely acting like a piece of frosted shit that has taken a shit atop my head and is now standing next to me, laughing incessantly about the shit on my head while I try to wipe it off.

What is that?

Frankly, I could have handled the abundant snow until yesterday when it turned to slush which inevitably turned into one of those violent puddles cars are so frequently splashing into pedestrian coats and faces and that yesterday, inevitably too, splashed into mine. And this wasn’t just any slush, it was frozen slush! Frozen, piss flavored slush. I also had no choice but to walk knit-sneaker first into a three foot puddle because I will not, repeat, will not buy snow boots.

Wait a tick. Do you think this weather is a) a conspiracy manufactured in cahoots with Isabel Marant to increase the sales on her released-this-season snow boots or b) just a testament to her indelible and incredible, perpetually lasting bout of luck? I can’t remember Sorel ever having it this easy with their boots and the corresponding climate.

Still, today does mark the official first day of fashion week and if I’m going to be really honest with myself, it therefore pisses me off plus-or-minus five octanes that to wear shoes, real, beautiful, multi-colored suede shoes, means to concede to fall, at least six times, and potentially eat ice peppered with New York’s finest brand of pollution.

So what does one do in the event of foot-immobility? Protest, of course. Remain stationary. Interminably click through the slideshow of street style photos as accrued by myself and Charlotte and presented here. I’ll do it slowly and stop over slide #2 to spend considerable time figuring out exactly how to approximate the woman in that image, with her perfectly ripped jeans at a novel floor length and the smart and functional red accent that comes as an iPhone case and then remember that, even though I am pretty sure I actually own those shoes, oh yeah, I can’t wear suede shoes.

So, I’ll bite the damn bullet, put on something rubber and electively release myself into the wild. Maybe I’ll wear Pharrell’s now notorious Grammy hat? Maybe I won’t.