a 21st century stepford wife
Keeper by name, keeper by nature. This j.crew chambray shirt get’s plenty of mileage. Thrown over a bikini, paired with denim, tucked into a flouncy summer skirt, or in this case, with leather shorts. It has faded a little over time, but I think that only adds to its appeal.
Madewell also has a huge range of chambray shirts to choose from. File it under ‘staples’ in your closet.
CHAMBRAY SHIRT j.crew
LEATHER SHORTS bb dakota
ANKLE BOOTIE midas
LEOPARD CLUTCH clare vivier
WATCH michael kors
MONOGRAM RING mannin
WISHBONE NECKLACE dogeared
FEATHER CHARM dogeared
Something funky happens to my appetite in winter. It’s as if the drop in temperate triggers an equal and opposite escalating hunger in my belly. I constantly find myself standing in the pantry, reaching for naughty things in a zombie haze. At winters end, I take off the heavy layers of clothing, and am mortified by the extra pounds still attached to my person.
Not this year. Soup is my saviour. This corn and bacon chowder is insanely hearty. To skinny it up, I used reduced salt stock, halved the butter and potato quantities, and omitted the cream altogether.
The leftovers reheat well for lunch the next day.
Contrary to the amount of denim you’ll see me wearing on this blog, at heart, I’m strictly a frock kind of girl. Give me a comfy jersey maxi and I’m good to go. The draping on this All Saints dress is manufactured on the stand, so it nips and hugs in all the right places.
DRESS all saints
BOOTIE zara (old), similar tony bianco
CLUTCH saint laurent
WATCH michael kors
NECKLACE tiffany
BANGLE hermes
BRACELET tiffany
RING ariella
Confession. I have size 8 feet. Controversial it is not, until you consider I’ve been torturing my tootsies into size 7.5 shoes for a decade. Why? Because I have an absurd predilection that a size 8 grip on this great brown land, is clown feet territory for a woman of my diminished stature.
My can of crazy sauce isn’t exclusive to shoes, I’m also guilty of drowning my clothes in it. I’m a bone fide asshat of 34, 25, 36 proportions. Punishing myself, literally in vain, and looking like an overstuffed sausage as a result. In Freudian terms, there’s a polar disconnect between reality, and the woman frowning back at me in the mirror. I’m being held hostage by a pesky little number on a tag, and giving myself a mental uppercut when I can’t fit my jelly into the size I think I’m supposed to be. Sound familiar?
Which brings me to the Oprah ah-hah light bulb moment. Here’s the thing. Nobody knows I’m wearing a size 0, but everyone can see how ill fitting it is. And there aint nothing cute about a muffin top.
Consider the negative connotations attached to escalating digits. Age, weight, interest rates, blood pressure. IQ test scores aside, we’re inherently programmed to flinch at larger numbers. No wonder we find ourselves kangaroo hopping around the bedroom trying to squish into our skinny jeans. Or is that just me? Say it isn’t so.
To complicate the issue further, there is a massive disparity in sizing between stores and brands. Yet ironically, we blindly depend on those tags. Imagine a clothing store bereft of tags. Could you pick a garment off the rack that fits you just by looking at it? Do you have any idea of your true physical size? And most importantly, does size matter?
Hell to the no dot com.
Repeat after me. Size is irrelevant. Fit is everything.
Join the revolution and liberate your wardrobe. Cut off your tags and confront the mirror monster. How refreshing would it be to choose a garment by the way it hugs your vessel and not by a discriminate number? Go on. I dare you.
