One of the most salient features of my non-French identity reveals itself just before the initiation of Fashion Week every single season.
You see, the real reason I am positive that I can never be French is because I pre-plan Fashion Week outfits. We all know Emanuelle Alt and gang would never do that. Never even think of doing that. But what always ends up happening to me is that after the first day of shows I realize I’m doing it wrong and that everyone around me is doing right. As a result, I go back to the drawing board, rearrange a few things, and then once again I’m back in Loserville coordinating outfits days before they will be worn.
Another common mistake I tend to make is shopping pre-Fashion Week for Fashion Week. I never actually end up wearing the shit I buy because I’m buying it for one thematic purpose which, surprise, isn’t actually that purposeful when all is said and worn.
This season things are happening a bit differently: I’ll be off the grid, inhaling apples and snorting honey, etc, through sundown on Saturday in observance of the Jewish New Year. Come Sunday, though, I’m in the gauntlet. And from where I stand now (clad in strapless bra and high waist underwear only), the current outfits of my sartorial pursuits just won’t cut it.
Or, I don’t know, maybe they will.
But in combing through my own dressed hangers last night, deeming everything completely and utterly inappropriate, I did the only thing one can do given the circumstance and defaulted back to my computer where I started flipping through street style blogs. Almost instantaneously did my closet feel like a born-again specialty store that comes with everything in my size and available to wear at no charge. Happy birthday!
I can totally wear a trench coat with a mini dress underneath it like the photographed Stockholm Street Style star does, or a pink blazer paired with paisley green pants a la Hamish Bowles. I think I even have that Chicago Bears sweatshirt and can certainly makeshift her ruffle mini skirt. Those ripped jeans from The Sartorialist circa 2009? I practically invented them. And per Picasso’s all-red-everything outfit, sign me up with a yellow pen. I’ve never turned my back toward a double breasted blazer and all of a sudden, a full black look with show-stopping shoes and a punchy red accent seems fresher than the coconut ceviche at Juice Press.
But, hello, duh, earth to Leandra, how has one flip through a couple fashion blogs completely reincarnated a closet that was in complete existence the same hour before when you confessed that “OMG I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR”?
Clearly, I needed a third party dose of inspiration — especially after Labor Day Weekend which let my brain check out in a most majestic-yet-illusive manner. Which got me thinking, maybe you do too? While you may not be participating in the week-long rally that awaits in a traditional capacity, we are all looking for an excuse to dress our personal bests, aren’t we? So take a dip through the photos that helped me and let them help you.
Now, where in the good name of botanic lady bits did Georgia O’Keeffe get that hat?