The best part of the end of fashion week is my being given legitimate enough reason to Google my own name without having to explain my recent search history to my husband who looks at me horrified whenever he finds that I’m looking at myself on the Internet.
“Research!” I will wail.
“But you live in your own head, Leandra, you don’t have to Google you to learn more about you,” he will logically retort.
But he doesn’t understand that in order to bring you what is subjectively “the best” of what I wore during Fashion Week in New York, I do have to Google myself to learn more about me.
So what did I learn this season? Frankly, that nothing I wore was particularly best. In fact, a lot of it erred on the side of worst. And this isn’t my fishing like a pro-sea bass killer for compliments; this is simply my addressing a discouraging condition of what it means to care about what you look like and how difficult that becomes when the calendar strikes February and you live in New York. Why? Because we don’t get to choose our clothes.
Our clothes choose us. If and when you attempt to pick out a look, what you will find is either frost bite or a mental blockade that stifles the neurotransmitters that help build cool outfits. The physical manifestation of this handicap looks like this:
I know exactly what I wanted to achieve: lithe legs fostered by heels in a pair of slim and high-waist vintage style jeans that would counter a jacket that is so suitably 70s inspired it could bounce off the wash on the jeans really well, and then catch a similarly colored cardigan and opposite boots, brought right back in with the implementation of a red neck scarf. Of course, the problem is that sometimes the ideas we have internally aren’t approximated in real life, which is fine for the most part — if you have time to change. But when you don’t, and are forced to meander among women you have deemed heroes and like-minded, otherwise individuals who more often than not trade in the currency that is a good shoe-to-pant ratio, you might find yourself feeling deflated. So much so that you take it out on fashion week, or worse, your city, and attempt to renounce it all together.
Until that beacon of hope shines bright once more and you’re just like, ah, this must be what Stella felt like when she got her groove back.
But it fades so quickly, you know? The next 15 degree day rolls around and you’re liable to fuck up again.