Skeletons in my Closet

I consistently get asked two things: “How often do you shop?” and “How big is your wardrobe?”

Answer: not very often and pretty small. I pride myself on being a very stringent editor, I blame it on OCD and living in tiny NYC apartments. I don’t keep anything I don’t wear for 4 months (with the exception of seasonal and outerwear), and I don’t buy anything that I can’t make two or more outfits with. So what stays? My skeletons.

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Work it Out

Shout out to all the women who ROCK the “I just came from the gym” look.

No evidence of sweat, not a hair out of place, and flawlessly coordinated pieces. I on the other hand, even post Fabletics subscription, can’t seem to channel the effortlessly chic athletic look that Kate Hudson deems attainable.

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Playing Pastels

When I was a little girl my mom and grandmother INSISTED on making my bedroom pastel colored.

Mint green, lilac, baby blue and lots of pink. Blame it on the early 90’s, blame it on my being the only girl, blame it on the water colored, art deco influenced back drop I grew up in. Whatever. I didn’t really dig it. I longed for bright cobalt, bold reds and graphic patterns in black and white. Living in New York for almost a decade definitely helped deter me from this color scheme, and fall in love with all things dark and edgy.

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A few years back, I found myself in the back of a Banana Republic, at the clearance rack (naturally) on the brink of a panic attack.

Somehow I went from casually sifting to frantically shoving wool pencil skirts, all sizes 00-2. However, this frantic fit was not brought on by the usual battle of the curvy girl meets tiny clothing, no, it was as simple as the question “How did I get here?” Not in the existential way I asked myself at 22 after recreational drug use, but in a very literal HOW DID I GET HERE?’  HERE: WOOL PENCILSKIRT; I live in Florida. HERE: BANANA; I don’t ever shop here. HERE: I AM SHOPPING FOR WORK CLOTHES.

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