If you’d have asked me three years ago what every man repeller should do, I’d have probably negated the question and explained that marriage, like an optional root canal, is certainly what she should not do. Why? Because it’s a terrible testament to the title we’ve earned.
“Happily ever after?” No thanks. The supposition that someone has earnestly chosen you and only you as a live-in best friend-with-benefits adhering to a strict exclusivity clause in perpetuity? What is wrong with him? Sex whenever you want it? How could one even gauge whether she is successfully repelling if these are the circumstances under which she must live her life?
Fast forward three years now.
If you’d ask me the same question, (go ahead, ask it,) citing the previous answer, I’d explain to you that having been inducted into the hall of unconventional domesticity, I can now attest that marriage doesn’t really stand between you and your alias. (It’s always been about us as individuals, why now, under the pretenses of marriage would it become about the ubiquitous him, anyway?)
As an institution, matrimony has its pros and cons. Though in volume, the cons (I like eating cereal in bed, okay? I cry during most episodes of SVU–no one had to know that, and sometimes I’m not so good at brushing my teeth before bedtime and I just feel like I don’t need the hygiene police on my ass about that) outweigh the pros, (do you see what I mean about maintaining the man repeller alias?), it’s the quality of the pros that make the legal joining of two people not just bearable but even a unique brand of enjoyable.
Sure, tax filing jointly and companionship vis-a-vis your dick-laden bestie are great, but it’s the prospect of adopting one more entire closet FREE OF COST that really turned me on to the whole thing. Which brings me to the photos above. We haven’t played the Who Wore it Best game in a long time and upon mulling over how to dive back into these risky waters–risky because of the inevitability that someone’s ego will deflate–I thought there’s no better way than to commission my own partner-in-sex to partake in “a really harmless style story.”
I wore his clothes, Naomi photographed it. He wore his clothes, and putting to use my expert iPhone photo capture skills, I photographed it. Sure, I have a foot up on him–if only because I’ve been granted the opportunity to wear heels whereas he must wear his black Rag & Bone sneakers.
“I would never wear this outfit, Leandra,” he explained, “the jacket is NAVY.” He’s a diva.
The million dollar question remains: who wore it best?
We’re wearing: a Theory blazer, Vince khaki jeans, a white shirt from Uniqlo (fine, mine is Equipment) and his sneakers are Rag & Bone while my sandals are Isabel Marant (and now $311 on The Outnet). Those sunglasses are Oliver Peoples.