Posts tagged ‘heels’
In the Buff
If we were to play a word association game with the word “nude” a few years ago, I would have immediately jumped to Italian Renaissance and/or grandmas in retirement homes who wear squeaky nude reeboks, are savvy at Bridge, and dye their puff puff hair a lovely shade of lavender grey. Ask me to play the word association game today and I would respond with Tobias Fünke and/or Spring 2013.
Reiss sweater | Armani skirt | J.Crew heels
Speaking to the latter, the naked color made several appearances on the runways last season. In the literal sense, Marc Jacobs stripped his models of pants for his spring runway parade and Pucci’s Peter Dundas was all about visible lady parts. Kimberly Ovitz nixed the whole idea of footwear and had her models doing the barefoot thing on a runway made of clay, however something tells me barefoot in a metropolitan city will only lead to foot fungi that’s just not worth the style statement. And then there were the likes of Jill Stuart, Reed Krakoff, and Katie Gallagher who put the nude hue onto actual garments of clothing, while other designers stuck to nude finger tips and heels.
Pulling inspiration from these runways — as we do — I put together a head-to-toe nude look that sparked a couple of thoughts: 1) I don’t hate it, in fact I feel quite sophisticated. 2) I especially like how each piece blends in with my skin and could really throw people off in a game of strip poker.
Schott jacket | Reiss sweater | Armani skirt | Zara heels
However, should such an excessively monochromatic naked outfit not be your cup of Earl Grey, allow me to introduce the biker jacket — a faithful friend who has only further proven her loyalty in these last few months as she just seems to make every outfit that much better. With a switch into black pumps and a bulky black leather number thrown upon my shoulders, you can’t deny that the previous outfit worthy of an afternoon tea is now more fit for a Happy Hour martini.
Reiss sweater | H&M shorts | J.Crew heels
And if the thought of too much nude in one look still sends you to Heebie Jeebie-ville, then let me just say that my strip poker team and I fully support Never Nudes. Cheers to the season of denim cut offs in public and the new season of Arrested Development on May 26th!
Full disclosure: I don’t know how to play poker, I am not on a strip poker team, and the one time I tried playing that game at a sleepover in 6th grade I called my mom crying and asked her to come pick me up.
// photos by Emily Malan
Well Footed
I just returned from an 8 day road trip with two boys, traveling from Jacksonville to New Orleans. Having grown up with two older brothers, I’m more than accustomed to being the only girl in the group. I’m an expert at changing my clothes underneath a towel (it’s all about the shimmy). I can get ready in 10 minutes. And should it be that certain time of the month, they won’t hear a peep about it — unless I choose to announce it, which I often do. Live out loud! But when it comes to what’s in my suitcase, there’s just no way I’m going to limit myself to the packing of the average male. Or so I thought.
While enjoying a heaping plate of eggs and hash browns in St. Augustine, Florida, one of the gents turned to me and asked, “just out of curiosity, for my own personal knowledge, how many shoes did you bring?” Personal knowledge? Yeah right. This was a fully loaded question and I felt the pressure like my hash brown-filled stomach pushing against the button of my jeans. I knew he was waiting for an absurd answer and honestly I have been known to pack six shoes for a three day trip, so the question wasn’t totally absurd. But in terms of footwear, I did limit myself for this trip (in terms of underwear however, I stand by the rule that you should always pack double the amount of days — you just never know). I kept in mind that heels would be unnecessary and stuck to four comfortable basics for the eight day beachy adventure. One pair of sneakers. A pair of flip flops. A pair of running shoes (which were never used). And a nicer set of sandals for nights out in New Orleans. That’s it! Nothing crazy. Yet I still felt like he thought I’d overpacked. Insecurity was taking its toll.
In the book of packing etiquette (does this exist?), I wonder, what constitutes the “right” amount of shoes for a trip? A quick Google search led me to a Glamour article where the writer confessed to packing 8 pairs of a shoes for a week long trip. Since she works in fashion and was packing for Paris Fashion Week, I’m going to go ahead and say this isn’t a “standard” packing situation, even though I 100% support it. I texted a group of five girlyfriends asking them how many pairs they would pack for an 8-day trip. The resounding answer was 3-4 pairs. I then asked a few bro-y boys who confidently said two. So, in girl world, I’m pretty average. In boy world, I’m above average. What do I make of this? Absolutely nothing other than that my packing was completely reasonable, even if I lied and actually packed five pairs instead of four and went to bed each night dreaming of when my feet would be back in five-inch stilettos. Shh…don’t tell.
So what’s your average shoe-to-day ratio when packing for a trip?
That’s My Name
Throughout most of my childhood I admired the Jessicas, Katies, Jennys and Michelles of the world. I wanted nothing more than a standard name; so much so that I named my favorite teddybear (who still sits on my bed) Sarah. I may have been given a different name, but there was no way I was going to let my teddybear grow up with the same frustrations. It’s not that Sonia is all that rare of a name actually, it’s just that people butcher the spelling and pronunciation beyond belief. Sonya. Sonja. Sonie. “Did you say your name was Sylvia?” “Hi Saaaah-nea, nice to meet you.” It’s SO-NIA. S.O.N.I.A. Dammit!
What’s more is that I was never able to find a snow globe, license plate keychain, or magnet with my name on it at the airport. I would turn those revolving racks around and around and around, passing all the Hillarys, Laurens, and Susans, desperate to find Sonia. She was not there. “Jesus” and “Daddy” were though.
It wasn’t until sixth grade that I began to appreciate my name. While I would like to say I had this breakthrough moment where I realized a name is only just a name and that I’m lucky not to be a Petunia or a Bertha, that didn’t happen. This is what did happen:
I was walking on Lexington Avenue with my Mom when we passed a store that had a particularly “mom-friendly” window display — think khakis, A-line dresses, and white patent-leather Mary Janes. I was in need of a winter jacket, so my Mom suggested we “pop our nose in” just to see what they had. I was not impressed. It smelled like an old woman wearing way too much perfume. The ivory white carpet was obnoxiously clean. And the store itself was all too quiet, which inevitably warrants the sales people to hover over you even if you tell them “I’m just browsing.” I was ready to give my Mom one big eye roll and stamper out of the store, but then she held up a black hooded bomber jacket lined with brown faux fur. What started as an eye roll turned into the same face I make when I see an overflowing buffet. My eyes open wide, pupils bulging, and my mouth turns into a giant, tongue exposing grin.
I floated over to the jacket to give it a proper inspection, and it was then that I saw my name. “Sonia”, correct spelling and all, typed up in capital letters on the tag. Holy penguins. That’s my name! Is this what they call fate? It must be. Just below SONIA was “Rykiel”, which at the time could have been a type of fabric or city for all I knew. My Mom told me she was a big deal designer, but since my designer knowledge didn’t go past the likes of Abercrombie and Fitch, I just nodded and said I loved it. I also said she was my favorite designer for about five years after that; though, aside from my gorgeous new jacket, I’d never seen another piece by her. It just made me feel cool knowing that I shared my name with a chic Parisienne designer. It also made me feel OK knowing that I would never find a license plate keychain with my name on it. A keychain? Puh-lease. Who needs some dinky souvenir when you can wear a dress covered in Sonias. You know?
Maje jacket | Sonia Rykiel dress | Prabal Gurung x Target heels | Bracelets by Hermes, Giles & Brother, BaubleBar, House of Harlow
//photos by Emily Malan
(Im)Practical Fashion
I am not the most practical person when it comes to fashion. I wear high heels in NYC and take the subway almost exclusively. I’ve also been known to wear suede in the rain. Neither of these habits are practical and that doesn’t bother me. But today I pose a question of practicality regarding the white shoe.
We all remember that scene in Sex and the City when Carrie is wandering around Paris in her fabulous white Manolo Blahnik’s and then squish! she steps in a fresh pile of dog crap. I cringe every time I watch this scene and to be honest I don’t think it’s because it’s dog shit, though that doesn’t help. It’s that here are these dazzling white heels that are just destined to get scuffed and dirty and watching it happen is like watching someone throw out a fresh pie of pizza. Stop! There was something good there!
White heels are a one-way ticket to making an outfit effortlessly chic, but they’re also a one-way ticket to Dirtville; especially if you live in a filthy metropolitan city like New York. How do I know this? Because I have the hardest time keeping my whites white in this city. My white jeans have little grey spots on them (probably from wearing them while it was raining — hashtag not practical), and my white Alexander Wang bag has dark smudges all over it because I idiotically wore it out on New Year’s Eve. So, as much as I love the idea of a white pump, you can understand my hesitation. But that’s the practical side of my brain talking. The impractical side says to hell with dog feces, bubble gum, and any other delicacies found on the sidewalk. Be bold. Take a risk! BUY AND WEAR THE WHITE PUMPS.
So what say you? Do you think white heels are a smart purchase or completely stupid? There’s no doubt that they’re a staple, but a staple can only go so far until it’s ruined, right? What do you think? I really want to know.
Photo by Garance Doré
Camo Bo Bamo
Trends are bullshit. You know why? Because the minute you say “I would never wear that” you find yourself coveting a similar item only a year or so later. Case in point: the camouflage print. I can attest that back in the day when items from Delia*s and Abercombie + Fitch dominated my closet there were indeed some camo pieces, but it has been over a decade since I even considered wearing it.
Until recently, the print reminded me of my not so stylish pre-pubescent days where braces were color coordinated with holidays and butterfly clips surrounded my ballerina bun. But now I find myself strangely attracted to the print and its surprising versatility. Like plaid or pinstripes, camouflage can stand as well on its own as it can when paired with equally busy prints — i.e. leopard. And so here you see me betraying my previous sentiments of hatred regarding the camo print and wearing it like it’s a necessary staple in my day-to-day wardrobe.
This not only supports my initial statement that trends are bullshit, but also that fashion is fickle. One second you’re swearing off anything snakeskin and then you’re wearing gold snakeskin pants that Snooki probably wore in the first season of Jersey Shore. Oh fashion, you trickster.
Zara jacket & shirt | Hudson jeans | Schutz shoes | BCBG bag | Celine sunglasses | Kenneth Cole watch
// photos by Emily Malan
