Every year, it’s the same thing: at some point in March, I catch a glimpse of myself in a particularly honest mirror somewhere, and have a moment of clarity. I’ll pledge that the life of High Sloth I’ve been leading all winter must stop, and the (comparatively) more rigorous, healthy life I lead the rest of the year must begin again immediately. And that is usually that. At the moment, however, it’s taking a little time for things to click in—time that is only allowing my extra winter layer of chunk to grow just that much chunkier. And the only way to make it stop, I realized today, is to get drastic. And so I’ve set a rule: no more clothing purchases until I like the way I look again. Now it’s got to be all about leafy greens, getting to the gym, and taking the dog out for studiously long, brisk walks—stupid freezing cold or not. Yesterday, we took off for the Meatpacking district.
A girl trying not to shop could make better-informed choices than strolling around the Meatpacking. But I didn’t think a little inspiration could do me any harm, and how was I to know that there was a new Rag & Bone store on 13th Street? An especially lovely one too, with its own Jack’s coffee bar, which I am so all in favor of, and will definitely be back for. Here’s yet another jacket in that sweatery fabric Rag & Bone always makes jackets in: I’m nuts for the leather detailing, as well as the unexpected speckles of green and pink.
Rag & Bone can always be relied upon for a nice selection of really flattering tops that are both forgivingly cut and chic, which are two things that do not often occur in the same garment. This slinky tee with sheer panels flows so prettily. All you need is the right cami.
I would look so uncool in an army jacket, but that doesn’t keep me from being obsessed with them. And this one—with that clean cut and unexpected, but somehow totally right, button collar—is just tremendous.
And look at this: it’s early, but we’ve already got our print of the week:
Then it was off to Washington Street and Vince, because I’d seen this tunic in the window a while back, and thought it might be nice to wear with leggings, the way I like to do with dresses that are too short for me to consider them dresses anymore. Normally I might find a handkerchief print like this a bit much, but the very subdued color palette makes it OK.
This top is so boilerplate me that I can’t believe it hasn’t been in my closet for years already.
Post-Vince, I popped over to the Warby Parker eyewear store on Washington Street, where they were serving Colombe Coffee at the door (I am so loving this trend), because I remembered hearing that Williamsburg jewelry boutique Catbird was going to have a store-in-store there over the weekend. Turns out I missed them by a day, but no matter: it got me in the door, which is something I’ve been meaning to do, but half avoiding, for a while. It’s hard to be anti-Warby Parker, what with their socially progressive ethos and for-the-people prices. And yet they just seem to try so hard in a very certain kind of way: their brand is named after Jack Kerouac characters, for instance. And then there’s this, which truly nothing can forgive.
Still, they make a lovely product. This pair of sunglasses is called the Winston, but I call it the Angus McCain, because they’re like the ones worn by a very nefarious character on my favorite underappreciated BBC drama (and here I am saying that Warby Parker is trying too hard).
I always surprise myself by liking those sunglasses Audrey Hepburn wears in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, because I so severely lack the Audrey Hepburn chip. And I kind of like these too, because they remind me of them, only lots lighter.