My first British wedding. Since I didn’t go to the Ascot Horse Race or other big social events, this was my chance at a wild British hat or the very popular FASCINATOR.
Brits pride themselves on subtlety, but here is where I think they sympathise with Texans…
THE BIGGER THE BETTER
Though I settled on a bit more subtle….
My colleagues all think I went on a date tonight.
They noted my straightened hair, my lbd (long, black, oh-so-very-smart dress), and my amazing red peep-toe heels.
They asked, “Who is he? Where are you off to?”
I giggled, smiled… but wouldn’t say.
The thing is, I woke up so happy this morning from last night that I decided that I had to wear something that made me happy. And rather than dash all of their hopes, I eluded their questions.
So when my colleague T asks me tomorrow if I put out (can you believe the nerve!?)… I will giggle to myself… because only I (and you!) know that that lbd of mine was stripped off and placed on the peg for… the gynecologist for my check-up! (a woman)
p.s. I was just thinking about the gown I had to wear and the slit up the back… I held it shut as I walked around radiology, but considering that I had one of Victoria’s Secret Sexy Little Things on, it’s a shame I didn’t jump start the tickers of the old men in the waiting room by “mistakedly” tucking the gown the wrong way for a cheeky flash of the knickers pictured below! Next time!!
6th January: Day 85 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
On to even more serious stuff… Hats.
I’ve been searching around the world for one that will look good on me. Well, in London and New York.
The thing is, I just won’t give in to the fact that I’m not a hat person. But I leave each story empty handed every time.
So when I found two that I thought might work, I thought about my sister. She is a superstar seller. She says the key is being honest.
So I decided to give a Banana Republic seller the opportunity for success as well.
I brought forward the two hats that I had finally considered possibilities after months of surveying the shops.
I tried on both and asked for the girl’s honest opinion.
And honest she was. Neither, she said.
I was deflated. These were my closest I’d come!
But then it occurred to me… was I really going to not buy the ones that I liked… the ones that I was comfortable in… and spend another year looking just because this woman I don’t know didn’t fancy what I tried on? Or was I going to trust my own instincts?
So I made her a successful saleswoman…. twice over… just not in the way I’d expected.
23rd December: Day 71 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
I dream of being ambushed, ridiculed and stripped down to my knickers. And redressed in some super trendy and incredibly flattering clothes. And then re-coiffed. And finally dusted, puffed and glossed.
But despite the fact that I have never been a guest of Stacey or Clinton’s What Not to Wear, I had met them both (Stacey at my event in October 2006 and Clinton in spinning class that spring), and they didn’t slip a $5,000 Visa in my pocket.
After coming in such close proximity to my fantasy, it seemed like an impossibility. Until I lost weight, gave away all of my big clothes was left with hardly anything to wear and was rescued by two amazing stylists, M & K!!
I was swept off to the Westchester Mall. First the style was selected:
Then my personal shoppers combed the store, picking up about twenty-five pieces and filling a dressing room for me.
Then they took their spots in two comfy armchairs, in front of a three-way mirror. It was the best dressing room I have ever seen to do such a makeover.
M & K didn’t tire – they kept going back to add more to my selection. And while I was too shy about it to jump around like a twelve year old, I was absolutely gushing inside to have such a fun chance to dress up in skinny clothes!!!
And so finally, we narrowed in on eight pieces!
Here are a few of the looks!
Thanks again M & K!!
11th November: Day 30 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
I prepared for my entrance. The elevator glances from steel toe upwards, the pointed fingers, the snide remarks…. the “y’all’s” peppered into conversations, and perhaps even a “howdy” between a jolly good, bloody hell, or even a blimey.
But there was silence. Not even one comment. Much to my disappointment. I’d been waiting to break them out since I arrived in London. Once I knew they knew me enough to take the mick out of me in front of my back, rather than behind it, I paired them with a super flattering gray dress I recently added to my wardrobe from the store that is the godsend to all broke Londoners, Primark…. where the best of the US meets the best of the UK… and no one was appreciating it. I could have worn them a lot earlier. Even more, I could have saved fifteen minutes Youtubing Cotton Eyed Joe instructional videos and another ten brushing up in my room.
So just to be a rebelious cowgirl (since my colleagues didn’t give me a chance in the office) or really, boho chic like the trend-watching photos of women in flowing dresses on bicycles with baskets in Soho, I biked home in my dress, with my boots on. It was fantastic. (nevermind completely impractical and unladylike… which I now also attribute to the boho women I was trying to aspire to, especially when I fully understand the implications of cycling over cobblestone).
6th November: Day 25 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
Oh yes I did.
Red shoe day in the fashion rotation. Oh so many wink, wink, nudge, nudge, “know what we say red shoes means?”, that I made it worth one hell of a wink and a massive nudge.
To work! And then for a night out!
Naughty, naughty.
2nd November: Day 21 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
There are two things I really wanted to do during my event. The first was to take a photo with Leona. This didn’t happen in the pre-event craziness.
The second was to take a picture on the catwalk. So instead of my usual approach of trying to slip in a photo when no one is looking, I told the technical director that I wanted to do this. I felt a bit silly, but empowered that I actually put out my desire.
So when I came out from dinner and saw that the catwalk had been ripped apart for load out, I was crushed! It was only the next day that perhaps just because I was trying to see the silver lining, I realised that it was the first time that I was so bold to voice my “silly request.”
30th October: Day 18 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
None of this being too shy to take photos or stand front and centre during my events. It’s time to take advantage of my ALL ACCESS ALL AREAS pass! After all, I was one of the few that created this show!
27th October: Day 15 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.
Our last day in the office before going on site. Completely manic. But not too insane to strut around with my amazing colleague J and have a giggle.
25th October: Day 13 of doing one thing I wouldn’t have done if I wasn’t living that day as my last.
I’ve been avoiding saying goodbye to them for a long time. They’ve been hanging around, underfoot, but I haven’t been able to bear banishing them from my sight and giving up the security of having them “just in case.” Until Saturday. I was reminded of my move. Of the nightmare of being surrounded in Brooklyn, Brussels, and London by such a plethora, plus, plus, plus, of stuff.
So I put them in a bag and walked down to where the secret footpath meets Mortlake Road. I slowly opened the bin and placed all of my nice trousers in. Banana Republic ones, namely. Ones that I had been so excited to buy last December, mixing and matching them with all of my boots and feeling highly fashionable next to the drab office drones in Brussels. I let them sit on the lip of the opening. I could easily take them back home. Or I could bring myself to the whole living once idea. “These trousers are cluttering my floorspace and therefore my life.” Repeat again to self.
I slowly lifted the handle to see the big THANK YOU on the slot. It didn’t make me feel any better. I knew it was irrational, the little panic I was having, but even if all of these trousers were now two to three sizes too big, I was scared to only have such a bare cupboard. Only two pairs remaining on the lonely shelf! And now that I’m in crazy London, it didn’t seem like I could replace them any time soon!
Turn in the direction of M&S. Repeat again to self my floorspace mantra. Enter M&S and scour the racks until I find a pair of black trousers for going on site for 9 pounds 50p. Add that to my stack of two jeans. Repeat a final time the mantra.
It’s only today that I feel happier at the lack of clutter, and more peaceful as I see more bits of my beige carpet.
15th October: Day 3 of doing one thing I wouldn’t have done if I wasn’t living that day as my last.
I’m not a jeans person. Never wore them in high school. A very few times in college. A bit more in NY. But hardly ever to work.
So my recent jeans sightings at work in London is actually quite a rarity. And the yesterday’s tuck was beyond rarity – it was the first time ever. I’ve always longed to do the tuck. The sleek boots and tight jeans so smartly combined. I was trying to figure out a way to wear my cowboy boots and somehow in the process my suede ones overtook all of the fabric of my bootcut jeans and there I was. My first time doing the tuck.
These just may become my riding boots! Bike riding, that is. …Photo taken just after biking 10 miles.
And apparently does not know how to properly cover them. Or so J, my German friend here, says.
For the past few years working in NY, I have managed to survive without having to reconcile my aversion to stockings/panty hose/tights – whatever you call that nasty stuff. Instant recall of my last pair of stockings: fall 2005. I have managed to ready the panty hose and put my leg through without any snags. We jump into the car for the station to take my trusty steel chariot, Metro North, into the city for work. As we cross of the bridge, I see it arriving. “Stop the car, stop the car!” I scream and jump out, when it hasn’t stopped. Action hero move to be followed by a sheer sprint to make it through the closing doors. Except that my feet first landed on a solid sheet of ice. So instead, legs moving, fall flat on my face (nose literally scraping the street), jump up, sprint across the bridge, run down the stairs, dash through the closing door, yank my purse that has gotten stuck, implore the man across from me to help… AND then look down and see the huge rips, the blood slowly sealing the hose to my injured leg. All composure is lost (not that you can keep much when you’re sprinting like a maniac in a business suit) – and as the conductor just happens to walk by, the tears begin to fall and all I can manage is, “I’m bleeding!”
After extensive therapy, I have just been able to surface this extremely scarring memory. Fact is, though, that it was not uncommon for me to see other women also avoiding covering their beautiful legs in NY, but here in Belgium, J is insistent that I am looking like an unprofessional peasant.
I have gone back to my sock drawer and dug to the bottom, but beyond my trouser socks, I am left only with my fishnets (bought for the office holiday party 2 years ago, but have proved a sexy finishing touch with pants and heals!). And so J dragged me to an H&M in Antwerp and finally I gave in…
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