The transition from summer to fall is always a more difficult one to digest when held up against its analogue, the transition from winter to summer.
During this time of year, we’re certainly in better spirits as a direct result of a. a surplus of vitamin D, which is obviously different from the deficiency that every East Coast denizen confronts sometime around the beginning of January and b. our not-quite-but-still-slight remnants of a summer glow. But we’re also getting ready to revert back to respective defaults: cold-ass, angry aliens with skin so pale it actually starts to look green by the time March — and therefore a sliver of hope — is in tow. Or maybe that’s just me.
But see the thing is, that’s precisely why what I wear feels considerably more important now than it does during the reverse switch. When I’m transitioning into summer, I can use atmospheric accoutrements as a respite from detailed, intricate dressing. It’s sunny, I’ve got a tan, it’s hot, I can’t fathom the notion of wearing a blazer and therefore I’ll repeat the same white cotton dress day and out. You know what else? You won’t care. In fact, the more often I wear it, the deeper my glow gets, the more you’ll start to like it.
It doesn’t work like that when transitioning from effortlessly attractive (at least by unilateral standards) to in-desperate-need-of-third-party-help because a little dress just won’t cut it. In light of that, I’m putting a foot forward to Alexander Wang-esque pajama-ish blousing (a contrast collar is not necessary but certainly adds decent zest) in the form of one blue and white Carven blouse, high-waist white jeans because whoever first mandated the color was a no-go post Labor Day is clearly a fucking moron, and a pair of black ankle boots with short heels because they’re comfortable enough to wear daily and because this particular pair features (faux) fur lining that bleeds out of the ankles which famously begs a question I haven’t been able to ask since 2010:
Are those chihuahuas on my feet, or am I walking?
Answer: They are not chihuahuas and I am not walking.
I am emoting and I am dancing.
Top the lewk off with a long vest or coat. This one is from Zara and I-swear-to-Phoebe could have been Céline in a distant, deceased life. See how much fun I’m having? Woo! Your turn.