Closet full of Clothes

a budding fashionista: calling the cowboy boots trend c.1988

I love fashion. It’s expression, it’s personality, it’s art on your bod. It’s the way that you choose to visually greet the world. Your closet is like your art box, filled with an assortment of pieces that you’ve chosen to own. From this exclusive collection you mix and match to create… well, you.

I’ve met some fashion gurus, and I’m damn sure I’m not one of them. I just like clothing and everything that comes with it. Love clothing and everything that comes with it. Crafting an outfit is a fine art. I mean, have you SEEN Stacey and Clinton? They’re geniuses. Just the way the talk about clothes makes me itch for a shopping spree. (Yes, I would like to pair this with a cami. You’re right, every girl does need a great matchstick denim. A plunging neckline would give me a longer neck. I need it all.) I have been known to day dream in clothing. Colors, shapes, lines, weight, textures-- the combinations you create are endless! The other day in yoga my teacher said to the class, “Concentrate on your breath, stop planning your outfit for tomorrow. Bring your mind back out of your closet and onto you mat.” The class laughed, and I wondered when my teacher had started reading my mind.

There is nothing like stepping out in an outfit that you just know is working for you. Whether it be the perfect dress for the perfect occasion, or a twist on the basic t-shirt and jeans, when you look great you feel great and confidence is by far the best accessory. When everything (outfit-wise) aligns, the sun shines brighter, they bay sparkles sparkly-ier, the Polk St. bums smile bigger, and when men cat call you from their cars, you can’t help but agree. Carrie Bradshaw could turn a crosswalk into a catwalk faster than any girl I know… because she alllways knew she’s was lookin’ good in her Patricia Fields outfit. (Please let me see SJP’s closet InStyle. Please, please, please!)

So you watch a few Rachel Zoe’s, see The September Issue, read a few fashion websites, travel to Italy, and become a fashion guru- right? Wrong. After having a closet that I can be proud of, I’m suddenly double guessing my dress collection, wrack full of eclectic tops, and oh what’s that in the back—my romper. Here is the truth people. I can barely wear anything I own to my new job.

Last week I tried to wear something funky to work. I pulled on an black jumper over a ruffled plaid shirt and paired it with black stockings and flats. I gathered my hair up on top of my head. (A look I was hoping would resemble a messy top-knot—later that day I would be asked if I forgot to re-do my hair after putting it up to wash my face.) I felt great when I left Nob Hill, but once I arrived at my Corporate tower, something had changed. I was a tall kindergartener. Everyone around me was in a structured suit and I was wearing a jumper with tights. I might as well have had a bus pass around my neck, a band-aid on my knee, and an apple for my teacher.

So what to do? I refuse to buy new wardrobe filled with collars, tweed, and god forbid-- kitten heels. I want to spend my money on wildly unreasonable shoes, fabulous dresses, tank tops with zippers, tube tops, new skinny jeans, bathing suits, more rompers (?), new white pants... gosh, this spring I was even going to try a jumpsuit. Ann Taylor leave me alone, I don’t want to be your friend.

Dang it Corporate America, you got me again. Another case of trying to figure out exactly how I can ease into this new place without losing my all of my funk along the way. The return of Spring means the return blazers over floral dresses, could that be that be my happy medium?

Until then, weekends watch out.

This Blog is Not About Tea

When impulsively creating this blog during a lull in my work day, I BBMed my sixteen year old brother/life coach with the news.

“I just created a blog. Weird?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know! What should I write about?”
“Your feelings”
“Emo”
“Haha. What else would it be about?”
“Something cool! Like sushi or tea?”
“Mehh you might seem too hipster. ”
“Well which do I want to be? Emo or hipster?”
“Emo. Hipsters aren’t cool.”
“Ohhh…”

I was shocked. Shocked because I’m living in San Francisco, California where skinny jeans and leather jackets are the uniform while gourmet coffee, getting back to vinyls and wayfarer frames are the cultural norm. (Use of the term “normal” in SF is totally objective. “Normal” is also a man in a purple bunny suit riding his bike through the streets on a Tuesday afternoon.) Hip is hip right now… or so I thought. This changes everything.

As I leaned back in my office chair to contemplate my prophetic younger sibling’s advice, I realized he was right. Then I realized that its incredibly overwhelming to realize that you’re baby sib can sometimes outsmart you… but let’s be honest, I’ve known that since he teased me about having a shotgun wedding when he was 10 and I was 18 and clueless to the implications of that phrase. He was right about two things. Writing about tea is hipster, and I might actually have a shot gun wedding.

In a world where I admire (covet) the fashionably forward business savvy socialistas, I need to get one thing straight. I’m turning into Liz Lemon. This has become clear to me as I’ve embarked on the first three months of my corporate job; spending the first three hours at the office with last night’s zit cream on my forehead, dribbling coffee on my freshly laundered powder pink oxford 10 minutes into the day, or my favorite, getting to a meeting late because the office’s powdered creamer (WTF) is not agreeing with last night’s adventurous endeavor at the Thai Noodle House in Union Square.

According to the March 2010 issue of Vogue, Liz Lemon is actually “every woman” - but comeonnn who wants to be mediocre? Printed on the grossly pretentious Lululemon shopping bag, there is a quote from their “Manifesto.” (Yes. Manifesto. OK, who do these people think they are? Sure, I love the stuff as much as the next sweaty yoga girl, but I swear people carry these bags around like freakin’ Louis Vuittons. OKOKOK, so I did too… BUT- I had the decency to stop after I lost my appetite while reading the pretentious, arrogant, we-are-so-wholesome-and-healthy, modgepodge of quotes on the thing- not what you want to read while stuffing your face with lunch…) Anyway, what the "cooler" of the two Lemons said to me over my peanut butter and banana sandwich was this, “Nature wants us to be mediocre because we have a greater chance to survive and reproduce. Mediocre is as close to the bottom as it is to the top, and will give you a lousy life.” Lulu, you’re saying that if I’m Liz, I’m lousy? I certainly don't want that, but how else can I fit into my new corporate niche?

Ah yes. The confident art student with a fresh take life is being pressed into the Creepy Crawlers mold of corporate America, and going down kicking, screaming, and spilling. (Oil painting and figure drawing to marketing and software sales?!) Suddenly my former (seemly charming) characteristics that passed off as “creative” and “original” dare I say… “stylish” in college, just make me weird from within the walls of my 10’x10’ carpeted holding cell – sorry – cube. And it’s not really funny when you don’t have a Jack Donaghy to lovingly tease you about all these character building moments.

Where can I find room for my sassy vigor? My days are spent at a desk, my evenings on a yoga mat, and my nights hip to hip (hipsters? Shoot.) on the only piece of furniture I share with my partner in crime/roommate. (A leather love seat… that actually isn’t even ours.)

One thing is for damn sure. I’m not going down without a fight. I need to find the way to be successful AND passionate in this city, in this life. So my first shot at reactivating this creative energy without TOTALLY spazzing a la Liz? I’m going to write about it. Like with any self-important blog, I will use an abundance of adjectives. I will also taking full advantage of using-dashes-to-string-together-words-do-i-sound-like-Carrie-Bradshaw-yet-?-. Welcome to my project- possibly pretentious, probably too honest B.L.O.G. I’m finding Grace.