I've decided overalls and jumpers are the winning-est trend to happen this season. Swathed in denim from ankle to shoulder by day and a stretch v-neck number by night, I've decided there is no reason to pick coordinating pants and tops ever again. I will gladly sit all naked and vulnerable in a public restroom for the comfort and convenience of a one-piece. Cover me up and zip me in. I will be living in this Free People jumpsuit this summer. This cropped, army-green denim number is my favorite tax-return purchase. It's the perfect flea-market perusing (with my trusty Birkenstocks) and cocktail-sipping (with strappy heels) number and I will never take it off. Except to pee. And then I will have to completely remove it and have someone else zip me back in. Volunteers?
Confession. I am not keeping up with runway shows and designer duds anymore. Not forever, but that sure explains my mostly neutral closet and drawers full of boring basics. Sure I still appreciate the artistic process behind each collection and their gowns still appear in my Instagram feed, but it's kind of just not on my radar these days.
These days I'm really into dressing "trend-free." I can honestly say everything I put on my body is a conscious blend of comfort and function. Does this mean I'm an adult? Probably not. Probably just lazy. I've ditched all my high heels for sleek tennies and strappy flats because blisters are not friends of my city-stomping feet. I wear most tops buttoned up to my neck because cleavage makes me feel too self-aware. And I haven't washed my black skinnies in a month or so because they're the closest thing to black leggings I can wear to work.
With comfort at the top of my sartorial priorities, I've slowly sunk into a sort of boyish look that's kind of fun and new for me. Shapeless jumpsuits, crew-neck T-shirts, sloppy shoes and maybe a kimono for a splash of drama. I like it. New York has stripped me of my love of A-line dresses because you can't sit Indian-style at your dresk in those. My beautiful strappy black heels are in my "can't fit in my closet" suitcase under my bed. But it's OK. My style's never been one to sit in one place for too long. I'm excited for what spring will bring. Maybe I'll be inspired by one of Oscar's polka-dot numbers and dress like a '50s housewife for the month of May. But for now it's all curb-stomping street-wear.
In the 7th grade my English teacher made the class read the Outsiders. It was probably the first book in school I enjoyed and we celebrated the end of the lesson by watching the '80s flick with Ralph Macchio, Tom Cruise, Matt Dillon, etc. I fell head over heels for Ralph Macchio's portrayal of Johnny and every now and again feel a shared bond between the character's kind, meek side—but even more so his dark locks, Converse sneakers, and muscle shirts. Many days I find myself subconsciously likening my outfit to the Greasers, but of course adding a bold lip for girlish flair. Ponyboy, Johnny, Sodapop.... you are my sartorial sprit animal. But my wardrobe is a lot like Robert Frost's poem and the last line of The Outsiders "Nothing gold can stay." Next season it will be on to the next character Abbey wants to play. Cheers, Pony.
Side note: This was the longest winter I've experienced to date. My dream city made me long for sweltering Southern summers. And seasonal depression is real friends. A girl can only take so many grey sweater, grey weather days in a row. Thank goodness the sun has decided to show his elusive self these past couple of weekends. New York spring is beautiful.
Winter clothes are my favorite, but only a select few (roommates, co-workers, since I am a full-time employee now!) have seen my elusive winter wardrobe as I am normally bundled up to my nose with scarves, masked with a long down coat and another scarf just to be safe. It took a while, but the romanticized dreams of a city dancing in snow has faded, and I'm pretty much ready for some warmer weather. Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful. But all good things must come to an end. Within 30 minutes of snowfall, blanketed sidewalks become slushy and grey, sprinkled with toxic chemicals to hasten melt time. While I wait for spring, I'm sticking to neutral-toned sweaters that match the blackened, road-stained snow banks that form on the sidewalks.
I haven't strayed much from the grey and black sweater, black jeans combo. It's just too damn cold to wear anything but pants and boots. I've made a uniform of sorts, and it cuts my getting-ready time in half.
For the record, New York is still kicking my ass, but I've definitely grown stronger with it. I'd say we're just about neck and neck. We're kind of like a "love-struck," dysfunctional high school relationship. I'm always running back to him because he's the hot shot quarterback, but he won't invite me to hang out with his friends yet because I'm just not cool enough. But he promises he loves me and buys me flowers when I think about ditching him and I take him back reluctantly only because he's hot.
So basically New York is John Tucker, the epitome of awful high school boyfriends. But who actually wins these battles? Brittany Snow does, and you, because you're probably not with your high school boyfriend anymore, and New York won't. Soon he'll drop the veil of deceit and cave to pressures of my hard-work and tears. So don't you worry, I'll whip him (New York, John Tucker?) into shape in due time, I've never been one to let someone else call the shots for long.
So I tried to talk fashion, I really did. And then my emotions invaded this precious space and I didn't even ask them and I can't really help it. I hope you guys don't mind. Thanks for listening.
[sweater-zara, boots- doc martens]
Who am I if not bold and sometimes brash? I've never been the soft-spoken, mysterious girl so often coveted in the dreams of the lost hero onscreen. I usually let my mouth get the best of me. For the most part, it's worked out. I have found most of my regrets stem from affections un-said, opinions un-voiced. I may lose at the whole perplexing-princess, ingenue trope, but I don't think my clothes would fit in her wardrobe anyway.
One must be of the audacious variety to snag a seat on a downtown 9 a.m. train to the Financial District, or triumph over combative taxi drivers at a crosswalk, or get a job in NYC where everyone is vying for the same "American Dream," carrying equal amounts schooling and exceeding amounts connections.
I don't think I'd call this yellow-printed pants set brash, but audacious? The sea of morning commuters part to make way for the woman drowning in analogous yellow print, or so I imagine—maybe I just smelled bad. It takes a bold personality to carry an all-over print, since you're certain to garner a doubletake or two.
I added a black, leather jacket and black pumps to my Zara set to streamline the color palate, but could not resist a bold lip a la Nars, Fast Ride to finish off the "don't think about turning right on red-it's my turn to walk-I look fierce-plus I can't walk any faster because, these heels hurt" look.
Bold gets you a job in New York. Brash helps when your broker's fee isn't comparable to his services.
You couldn't rip these $20, Forever21 jeans away from me if your life depended on it. They're perfect and comfortable and I don't have to unbutton the top button after a large meal. Boyfriend jeans are a way of life, one that says "I know my backside is unflatteringly flat and it looks like I have cankles, but those are the kinds of things I can forgo when I want to look slouchy-chic and don't want seam lines embedded in my skin when I take them off." Boyfriend jeans don't care if you don't have a boyfriend and you bought them at a teen wholesale store. They're the IDGAF of jeans, they're the pair-me-with-sexy-sandals-to-create-an-ironic-dichotomy-jeans and they're here to stay for every season. I just decided.
Halfway through this post I realized I already wrote an ode to these jeans, but I guess I'll keep going to show you I'm not a quitter. Here is my summer interpretation in which I add a breezy button-down and sleek sandals to up the down-town chic factor, but I also wear them with muscle tees and Birkenstocks; so don't be fooled.
New York's still beautiful, if you were wondering. I've been spending a lot of my time in the East Village with my soon-to-be roommates and I can't help but take fashion inspiration from the silent fashionistas that seem to always have their nose in their phones. This trait helps me to look a few seconds longer without feeling intrusive. This down-town chic is a mix of neutral cropped sweaters and frayed denim, platform sandals and textures hair-dos. I'd be lying if I told you my hair wasn't an attempt at the perfectly undone look the ladies of downtown sport.
Thanks, Mazie for the photos.