I have only one issue to take up with the Michelin star of holiday weekends — the artist formerly known as Memorandum — being declared summer’s unofficial starting line and that is: packing. I know it sounds trite, disconnected from what constitutes reality, but the mind wants what the mind wants and mine, my friends, just wants to feel free from the disarray that is attempting to forecast what I will want to wear in the future. I can’t even figure out lunch when I’m standing in line at a salad bar — where the only options are, you know, salad — so how, really, am I supposed to feel comfortable electing outfits, the formidable windows into our souls, for days past the current one?
The best I’ve come up with is bending the contraband rule that mandates you’re supposed to pack in the first place. Why not assume that what you’re wearing on your back will be precisely what you’ll want to wear for at least the following 72 hours, right? It’s not quite hot enough to fancy yourself a bikini-and-the-city extra but it is hot enough to pretend.
So I’m suggesting the following for the packing that will precede wherever the upcoming weekend takes you: don’t do it.
If you must, take a beach bag and stuff the technicalities in there. (See: toothbrush, !sunscreen!, red lipstick.) If you have room left and figure you might do something beachside black tie, a crop top + heels are fine too. Oh! And take a large-size silk scarf. You can use it as a sarong, or head piece, or diaper, whatever.
If and when someone in your share house is to ask where the rest of your clothes are, you should make it your point to share with the inquirer a new movement for which you stand: stuff is so last season. Besides, DOESN’T SHE KNOW? Real style is about making the same point over and over (and over) again.
Sooooo, WHAT DO YOU THINK?