Mine is a Phillip Lim Dress. With little razzle dazzle, hello dolly! synthesizers. Carefully chosen to look haphazard - as though it were an afterthought [oh this old thing? I just pulled it from the closet], an unintended masterpiece. It's what they expect, no?
Especially now, with the apartment smelling of tomatoes and parmesan, home feels eons away. Outside, snow continues to settle upon car after car after car. Like all snowy nights, it's silent out and Brooklyn seems lovelier than ever. Amber light dances with the floating scenery. A night intended for Leonard Cohen dreams.
It all seems so silly - worrying about finding the perfect dress. For some whatevs party back at home. Especially since the look intends to appear casually confident. Supremely New York. Divinely unassuming.
But there's this expectation - by the folks at home - to dress the job. To look fantastical and utterly fashion-forward.
Don't they know? Haven't they realized that, like them, I'm just a girl trying to make the paltry paycheck spread thinner and thinner each month. Glamorous meals mixing a can of beans and cayenne. Not thinking twice about solitary wine indulgence. It's deserved. Duh.
And I honestly don't know what's wrong with me - worrying about something as silly as making the right entrance at the right time with the right dress. There isn't even a date. [honeys: pause to imagine frozen looks of shock. what? no fiance? no boyfriend? well. don't worry: he's out there somewhere. you'll find him. It's not like I've been looking] But there is the dress - the beautiful, beautiful dress that folds and ripples - bits of silver dashing amid black. It could be a sonnet - this dress. Or that which encases a slick secret. Or perhaps inspires the secret.
You see - even in my reluctance - I still will indulge these belles. I'll play the part and pass funny jokes. I'll give them tips on S09. Perhaps I'll even whisper some yawn of a rumor. They'll feel a bit more alive - a smidge closer to that which feels so glamorous and dreamy, a few heel clicks from Oz (you know the Tin Man will lurch 'round in Gareth Pugh).
Oh this odd, odd world - this place where I'll soon return. It's balmy days and white sunshine. Girls mooning over the simplest pair of Louboutins - not knowing a bit about the truly swoon-worthy McQueen flap-front booties or Azzedine Alaia's frothy concoctions.
Instead, they keep a credit at Talbot's and aspire to wear Juicy Couture. If only they knew what other delicacies fashion provided. If only it were a bit more attainable. Or comprehendible. Fashion isn't about sassy leopard-print sling-backs or curlz font. It isn't about pink patent-leather dog carriers or St.John knit. Tory Burch, while incredibly accomplished, isn't the harbinger of the creme de la creme. Style is personality and confidence. Of knowing who you are and pursuing it, living in it. Feeling inspiration's fleshy buds. It's mixing and blending - of discovering patterns that almost feel rebellious. Of being entirely covered up and feeling entirely stripped down.
So maybe that's the problem with my perfect dress - I want it to do more than it ever will do until I remove its expectation. It's just a dress. A beautiful, fanciful dress. But still a dress.
And I must remind myself of it.
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