For allowing me
Indulge my narcissism twice yearly at the end of New York Fashion Week when I get to do my favorite activity — google myself! — very thoroughly, with no remorse, without needing to explain myself and most importantly, while drinking a cappuccino in a hotel breakfast room with a bowl of granola to my left and a small cup of scrambled eggs (that taste like truffles or something!) to my right. There is also a plate with tomatoes and fruit and one pastry that looks kind of Jewish (there is jelly in the middle of it) right in front of me but that seemed irrelevant to share until just now when I shared it.
So anyway, welcome to this season’s episode of The What I Wores, now called Six Days of Outfits. If the week in dressing was a runway collection and I was scrambling to call it something in order to convey its cohesiveness, I’d call it FernGully: The Lost Denim. Because even though I did wear jeans twice, that is a pale number in comparison to how frequently I usually wear them. Could it be that I am finally sick of denim?
Am I having an epiphany?
Could it be that I am trying so hard to put off the end of summer (sandals in 50-degree London, mini dresses at Synagogue) because I don’t want to return to the pants I have previously called home? Have sequins and surf pants and cotton twill tops that create the illusion that I don’t have fingertips finally eclipsed ripped denim as the wears of a casual dresser? Because there I am, in Exhibit A, wearing a Peter Pilotto dress that is arguably formal but paired with a striped shirt fastened around my waist. Let’s skip Exhibit B for a second and consider the jumpsuit of C. It’s a one stop shop — a single sartorial sentence that says the same thing every time you wear it. Then there is the knit set of option D. Pajamas disguised as day wear and per that starry dress (it is Magda Butrym, by the way!), that’s practically Exhibit A revisited but with America (pre-Marc Jacobs!) more literally on the mind.
Anyway, I’ll shut up. I can see how this prose might be distracting from what’s important here, which is ultimately what I wore and why I wore it and how I wore it so follow the black cursor-laden road to the slideshow where credits and comments flow like salmon in Norwegian waters.
Speaking of which, update: The Jewish pastry was weird. I am now eating a piece of braided dough with raisins sprinkled throughout.