Weighting in vain.

Well. I've done it. After sorting through 22 years' worth of free t-shirts and impulse buys, selling those that were in good enough condition and donating the rest, gradually swapping out my H&M basics for name-brand alternatives and peppering my curated collection of timeless staples with one-of-a-kind vintage finds and the odd designer gem, I've finally amassed the perfect wardrobe.

...For someone who weighs about seven pounds less than I do.

Let's talk about buying aspirationally. Everyone does it. No one likes to talk about it, because no one wants to admit that a) they've got a few pounds to lose and b) they've deluded themselves into believing that the best way to deal with said extra pounds is to invest in things they literally cannot use. Buying clothes in the wrong size is completely illogical: even if you manage to lose the weight, chances are that by the time you get there you'll want something else. But does that stop us? I guess I can't speak for any of you, but doesn't stop me.

Granted, my situation isn't exactly typical, in that two years ago I weighed nearly 65 pounds more than I do now. For a long time after I began my lifestyle change (people hate that phrase, but it is what it is), all I bought was "transitional clothing": things I liked, but wouldn't be devastated to say goodbye to once the next few inches came off. Now that I'm within 10 pounds of my original long-term goal weight, I have a reasonably good idea of what my body will look like when I finally get there. I've begun to invest in clothing again. The rub? I'm not there. Not yet, anyway. I've conditioned myself to try things on and, if they fit, buy the next size down, assuming I'll need it soon; I never buy anything I can't physically put on my body, but I definitely purchase with room to shrink. I'm a pathetic fashion cliche: a six with a wardrobe full of fours. But because I refuse to actually walk around in ill-fitting clothing, I end up only wearing about a third of my wardrobe, the unwearable part growing bigger as I grow neither bigger nor smaller.

Allow me to disclaim. I know I don't need to lose the weight. I'm healthy, attractive, physically fit, blah blah blah. Whatever. There's something about setting a goal and reaching it that's incredibly gratifying, and since my goal is reasonable and realistic, I refuse to deny myself that human satisfaction. It's not about the size itself; it's about reaching the hotness potential I know I'm capable of. Yes, I've come a long way, but isn't living your life comparatively just as dangerous as setting high expectations? Isn't it all too easy to be better without being your best?

After a mega-motivated April, I've been hovering at a plateau for a few weeks now, the dreaded swimsuit season looming ever closer. My dad is getting married on the beach over 4th of July weekend, and I'd really like to look like Brigitte Bardot in a bikini. You know, amateur stuff. Time to take the cupcake consumption down a notch, more for the sake of my own confidence than any obscure societal standard of beauty. But here's the more pressing question: do I throw in the tacky starfish-print beach towel and snap up the remainder of my summer wish list (blush-hued leather jacket, crisp white jeans and pink shorts à la Isabel Marant) in my current size, or do I wait a few weeks and see how things go? I'm itching for a seasonal wardrobe update, but I don't want to end up with things I can't wear, regardless of the outcome. Buy later to wear later, or buy now to possibly wear never? The answer should be obvious, shouldn't it? So why do we entertain the notion at the expense of our own pride and pocketbooks?

Have you ever fallen victim to vanity buying? Did it motivate you, or did it end up being a waste of money and a blow to your self-esteem? I'm really interested in the psychology of this, and I'd love to hear your thoughts or experiences. Let's just put it out there. Lady to lady (or gentleman. I don't discriminate). This doesn't have to be a lonely dressing room struggle.

Shall we play Risk or Sorry?

It's official: man repelling has gone mainstream.

Like so many movements in fashion, it began almost imperceptibly, an organic call to arms bubbling up from the dregs of society (or in this case, the Upper East Side). Popularized by blogging wonder and upcoming industry darling Leandra Medine, the man repeller is defined by the following credo:

man·re·pell·er  [mahn-ree-peller]
–noun
outfitting oneself in a sartorially offensive way that will result in repelling members of the opposite sex. Such garments include but are not limited to harem pants, boyfriend jeans, overalls (see: human repelling), shoulder pads, full length jumpsuits, jewelry that resembles violent weaponry and clogs.
–verb (used without object),-pell·ing, -pell·ed.
to commit the act of repelling men:
Girl 1: What are you wearing to the party?
Girl 2: My sweet lime green drop crotch utility pants!
Girl 1: Oh, so we're man repelling tonight?

While I was vaguely aware of the movement's existence, my first encounter with a true man repeller took place last summer on the Condé Nast elevator. I was playing my usual game of Guess Your Publication Based On Your Outfit (Lord help you if I condemn you to Brides) when an unmistakeable Vogue-ette ducked in through the gleaming steel doors. I took in her messy hair, her horn-rimmed spectacles, her shapeless blouse, her baggy trousers, her piles of ethnic-looking jewelry. I was in awe. She looked thoroughly unsexy. She was the single most stylish person I had ever seen in the flesh. Sure enough, she pressed the button for Floor 12.

Some call man repelling a feminist movement: women dressing for themselves rather than for men, content to have their outfits raise eyebrows instead of erections. Where the old adage advises, "When you got it, flaunt it," the man repelling school of thought would instead have us say, "I've got so much of it, I don't need to flaunt it." To man repel is to declare a womanhood that can't be stifled by layers of unflattering clothing. But is man repelling as accessible as Leandra Medine would have us believe? Or has she, cute as a button and boasting a wardrobe that comes, in her words, "entirely from Barneys and Topshop," been absorbed into the cultural zeitgeist despite otherwise insurmountable odds that render her message moot to the greater population?

I don't dress for men. Perhaps that's a victory. But I don't think I've quite evolved to the point of dressing entirely for myself, either. I'm still dressing for what I believe others believe to be my perception of myself (got that? All of it? Read it again. Yeah?). A blatant disregard for the traditional standards of beauty can mutate into its own set of neuroses. I'll explain with a parable of what I call "karaoke dread."

Awkward truth: I used to take voice lessons and think I wanted to be a musical theatre performer. Then I realized (spoiler!) I'm not really all that great at singing or acting. NBD. Over being a Broadway star and into being a writer. But what's funny is that rather than keep singing as a hobby (as opposed a career path), I now dread any situation where I might have to perform in front of an audience. Example: karaoke. Most people aren't "good at" karaoke. Karaoke isn't really about talent; it's about the tequila shots you take before your turn. But because I have a musical history, if you will, I'm petrified that people will think that I think I'm good at karaoke, like one of those delusional contestants on American Idol. (Or one of those delusional judges on American Idol.) The idea of someone doubting my ability to accurately gauge my lack of talent is more than I can handle. As Carrie Bradshaw says when asked to walk in a charity fashion show featuring "real people" as well as models, "I don't want people to think that I can't see the difference between a model and me."

Now apply the same principle to man repelling, which, for me, turned into a perverse mind game tied up in my body image. Having lost a significant amount of weight over the past two years, man repelling became a benchmark of having "made it" as an attractive person. The manufactured sexiness of my outfits took on an inverse relationship to what I believed to be my level of innate allure, and I began to feel an acute pride in my ability to wear things not specifically tailored to make me look skinnier. Hello, harem pants! I can wear you because I feel thinner than I did yesterday! or, on a rough morning, Oof, better opt for a sundress. Don't want to look like I think I'm attractive enough to wear something ridiculous today! My man-repelling clothes might have looked like a symbol of confidence, but really they were a symbol of the appearance of confidence; alarmingly fragile, shattered more readily by the judgement of myself than that of men, or even that of other women. There were so many dimensions at play it would put Never Say Never to shame.

Maybe I'm just outing myself as some kind of self-conscious buffoon, but my hope is that you can avoid falling the same rabbit hole I did when it comes to experimenting with fashion. For better or worse, taking crazy (and sometimes downright ugly) clothes and making them look cool has become part of my schtick. I don't always hit the mark, but when I do, there's nothing more satisfying. A few days ago, I wore an ankle-length high-waisted orange-and-white striped fruit-print skirt (for the record, there are more things wrong with that statement than there are hyphens in that statement) with a fur vest and turquoise jewelry. I raked in a ton of compliments on an outfit from which most sane people would have run the opposite way screaming. But more importantly, I felt truly and overwhelmingly myself. I wasn't wearing something insane because I felt the need to prove I could pull it off. I was wearing something insane because I loved it.

I still subconsciously view man-repelling outfits as more impressive than conventionally attractive ones. Part of that is just my taste: I've long been drawn to the interesting over the beautiful. Part is the degree of creativity involved, that age-old distinction between fashion and style. Anyone can buy a trendy dress, but it takes a truly stylish person to throw together a jaw-dropping outfit composed of sartorial underdogs. And part is that the society of man repellers still seems like a high-fashion club for some elite upper crust of attractive (or at least extraordinarily confident) people. You rarely wade in the man repelling pool. You dive in headfirst, and you sink or swim.

When it comes to fashion, I'll likely always be a risk enthusiast. But I think our reasons for taking risks are worth examining. Defying what's accepted can become just as imprisoning as embracing it if done to shock others rather than to make ourselves happy. This spring, when I don my bow ties and my mum-print capris, it'll be because I genuinely believe that a world without mum-print capris is no world for me. And if some tall, handsome gentleman can see beyond the nutty fashion façade...well, that's just icing on the cake.

You're so transparent.

I love being naked. I may masquerade as a clotheshorse by day, but if I’m lounging around in the privacy of my apartment, I can’t get out of my clothes fast enough. I’m not a cavewoman - I’ll throw on a robe or a pair of booty shorts out of respect for a roommate who may not be as into my body as I am - but when I live alone, there’s a good chance I’ll eat, sleep, crack my knuckles, read and re-read Harry Potter, check myself out in Photo Booth, practice my Beyoncé booty shake and do all of my other embarrassing secret behaviors in the buff. Going au natural makes me feel more in touch with my body and holds me accountable to not, you know, eating entire jars of rainbow chip frosting in one sitting (don’t judge. These things happen, y’all). Nudity can also provide a devilish confidence boost for those sure-to-be-awkward phone calls (I once nailed a job interview wearing only a watch).

It may come as no surprise, then, that when law or common decency require me to be clothed, I tend to gravitate toward body-skimming styles that hug my so-called curves. I have the kind of proportions – little waist, long legs, childbearing hips – that sound great in theory, but don’t take to clothes nearly as well as they do to hypothetical male fantasies. Loose-fitting, androgynous styles do me no favors. The more I conceal, the bigger I look. As such, this whole sheer moment that's happening right now is particular exciting for me: I get to wear the high necks and the loose, blouse-y shapes that would otherwise send me on a one-way trip to Frumpsville without concealing the shapely silhouette that lies beneath (yep, I love me). But as I rifled through my sheer-shoaled wardrobe, I couldn't help but wonder: how does one bring spring and summer's floaty fabrics into fall?







This Alexander Wang chiffon sweatshirt is DY. NA. MITE. The daring can wear it over an art deco bra à la the above photo, but a bodysuit or ribbed undershirt is a swell full-coverage alternative for the wallflowers/professionals/people who occasionally eat entire jars of rainbow chip frosting in one sitting. If you choose to go the exposed tummy route, you'd better love yours, and you'd better be pretty damn sure everyone else is going to love it, too. I've also seen knockoffs at Urban and Topshop with mesh or chiffon insets on the sleeves instead of the torso, eliminating the question of whether or not to reveal the inner workings of your gastrointestinal system to the world.

Regardless, you'll want to minimize the gap between your hemlines. Opt for a high-waisted skirt, perfectly fitted jeans (muffin tops need not apply), languid cargo pants or - whaddya know! - leather shorts. I also recommend balancing the peekaboo sex appeal of a sheer inset with a pair of flat boots or chunky platforms.

This is the part where most bloggers would make a crack about this look being "sheer brilliance." But I'll save you the forehead slap and the drum solo. You need that energy for shopping.

La Parisienne.

I love everything French. (Okay, not French dressing. I’m actually morally opposed to salad dressing. Don’t get me started.) I took five years of Spanish in middle and high school after being told it would be more useful in the "real world" (attention to all those with aspirations in a fashion-related industry: this is a lie), but I’m one-eighth French and exceedingly proud of it. When it comes to design, food and general worldview (okay, maybe not military tactics), there’s no denying that the French know best.

No surprise, then, that I spritzed on my YSL Parisienne perfume this morning and left my apartment feeling decidedly fierce.





If I'm going out, I usually strap on a cute balconette bra under this dress and embrace the cleavage buffet approach. For work, I layered it over a lace tank to make the ensemble a tad more office-appropes. Even Condé Nast has its limits.



If you're into this look, you would die over Paris-based Denni Elias's blog, Chicmuse. She's all about the legs, lips and massive platforms (and even heart-shaped sunglasses in her latest post). Her charming, quirky style is one of my favorite pools to dip into when I need a little style inspiration. Or workout inspiration. Those legs. No homo.

Tank: Kimchi Blue.
Dress: Kimchi Blue.
Shoes: BCBGirls.
Sunglasses: H&M.
Bracelet: Gifted.
Ring: Inherited.

Just pulling your leggings.

Ask any follower of fashion about the most controversial issue currently plaguing our nation, and chances are you won't hear some formulaic tirade on health care reform or the newly elected senator of Massachusetts. (Disclaimer: I am not trivializing these things. This is a fashion blog. You can find somewhere else to air that dirty laundry.). Instead, you'll hear a formulaic tirade on a debate that has been brewing since long before Michelle's toned arms registered a blip on our national radar: are leggings (workout staple-cum-darling of catwalk and sidewalk) a privilege, a right, or a bar none fashion faux pas?

The most interesting thing about this debate is our tendency to oversimplify it into a mere question of categorization. We all have that aggressively opinionated friend (Deanna): "I don't care how skinny you are. Leggings are not pants. They just aren’t." I hate to break it to you, haters, but leggings are pants. Dictionary.com defines pants as "an outer garment for covering the body from the waist to the ankles, divided into sections to fit each leg separately," so by definition, leggings are an acceptable pants substitute. You heard it here: leggings are literally pants. Case closed.

But the question, then, takes a far more inward turn: should I wear leggings? Is it in my best interests (and the best interests of the innocent bystanders who are going to have to look at me all day) to do so? It would be ridiculous to say that pants with tapered ankles aren't pants, or that pants a size too small for you aren't pants. But do I recommend that the unfettered masses take those looks out for a spin? Hell no. The key to looking chic has always been to wear what flatters your body, and leggings happen to offer a little less leeway than, say, an A-line skirt or a pair of straight-legged jeans.

So let’s instead define that boundary with a simple litmus test. Stand up. Jog a few steps. If you can feel the cushiony part of your rump bounce independently from the rest of your body, the only place you should be wearing leggings is to the gym. (And that’s not to say your lady lumps aren’t hot. Is Christina Hendricks gorgeous? Duh. Does she run around in leggings? No, and to her credit.) The line is a fuzzy one: in-between territory can be tough (holla atcha, sixes!) and becomes more of a matter of confidence. If you think you “can’t pull off” leggings as pants, you probably can’t. If you have a feeling you just might be able to rock the look, wear them with heels for a little extra lift.

Having said all this, I love the look of leggings when worn appropriately (that is, with a shirt that’s not a crop top; the ‘80s may be back in vogue, but they are definitely over). Like skinny jeans, leggings provide an excuse to play with more billowy upper-body proportions, and, as such, pair well with the boyfriend shirts/tees/jackets we’ve been seeing these past few seasons. Texture is another variable ripe for experimentation (I’m a major proponent of the Shiny Leggings from American Apparel in Lamé Matte Black; their visage hovers somewhere between leather and sparkly mica). As for spring's jeggings? Use your judgment. Personally, I think jeans and leggings are great, but I’d rather wear them separately. Don't all those seams and rivets look lumpy in such a tight cut?

I’ll leave you with a few inspiration shots from "collective fashion consciousness" Lookbook.nu. For day:







For night:





And for weekend:







However, even by modern standards, wearing leggings to the office might be a bit of a stretch.

Have your cookies and eat them too.

Christmas? Love it. The overabundance of baked goods is just one reason we look forward to the holidays all year long.







But nothing ruins a showstopping party dress quite like cookie weight. Save yourself the guilt trip: indulge! Then break a sweat as often as you can stand to balance it out. Whether you're rushing from the gym to a final exam to a holiday bash (or simply looking to clean up après-ski at Winter Park), here are a few products to take you from abominable snow monster to ice princess in no time flat.



"Ojon" means "the people of beautiful hair." I am inclined to agree with this translation. Ojon Rub-Out Dry Cleanser is a must for any girl with fine locks that start to look limp and/or greasy quickly. Meant to be used as a pick-me-up between washes, I also use it as a volumizer on just-washed hair. Warning: these cans clog easily, so shake vigorously before using. I would also recommend buying the travel size; if it does clog up on you, that's less product wasted (although I've heard Sephora will switch out a clogged can). There's also a strong, baby-powdery smell associated with the spray...but seeing as this is a product that all but encourages not bathing, you could probably use a little freshening in the scent department.



Speaking of scents: when was the last time you felt passionately about your deodorant? Yeah, that's what I thought. We settle for "functional," content to breathe generic florals every time we cock our heads too far to the side. No more. If you worship at the altar of vanilla, Ban Vanilla Twist is a stick that not only keeps you from smelling bad, but actively contributes toward you smelling good. And the homey aroma lasts all day.



"Shiny" is a great adjective when it comes to healthy hair or anything sequinned. Not so much when it comes to your face. With scents like green tea, lavender and rose, Boscia Blotting Linens go above and beyond the call of merely reducing oil and enter the realm of therapeutic experiences. Dab your face and inhale after a tough workout. Just make sure you have a place to toss that alarmingly soaked sheet when you're through.

Bodycon-oisseur.

In fifth grade, my favorite outfit was as follows: a lime green crushed velvet boatneck worn with leopard-print pants (both from Limited Too, duh) and a cropped leather jacket.

Today, at age 20, I am at this moment drooling over: a midnight blue crushed velvet bodycon dress worn with a leopard-print silk scarf (both from Topshop, duh) and a cropped leather jacket.

That's right, bitches. Velvet is back, and with none of the prissiness it had in the '90s. You can thank Balmain's Christophe Decarnin (the man who singlehandedly revived the shoulder pad) for its new incarnation: curve-hugging bodycon dresses made for nights out in Arctic conditions.



Controversial fabric aside - I adore velvet, personally, but I understand if you've filed it away with platform Skechers and popcorn shirts - let's talk about the cut. While bodycon dressing does require a degree of general fitness and proportionality, a slim-cut silhouette is far less intimidating than you might imagine. There may not be much of a margin for poochiness, but there's also no extra bulk added by the fabric, so if you've got confidence (and a reasonably flat stomach) there's no reason you can't pull it off. Long sleeves and a short hemline mean that allure needn't come at the cost of warmth; your gams will be just as catcall-worthy under a pair of black tights (choose sheer, not opaque, for maximum exposure).



If velvet's not your scene, epaulets provide an equally up-to-the-minute embellishment. They're like the Kate Bosworth of shoulder pads: kind of frail and spindly, but not unattractive. Am I right? Am I right?

Whatever. Both dresses make me want to sit in a swanky city bar and sip amaretto hot chocolate as I watch snow fall through a picture window. Now if only I had a Nate Archibald (or a Trip Vanderbilt) to keep my Serena van der Woodsen company...

Baby got back.

So who else thinks backs are, like, outrageously sexy? Having a perfectly toned rear view has become one of my new life goals (she wrote, polishing off a chicken fajita), up there with running a marathon and joining the mile high club.



I'm really into the peekaboo sex appeal of this Silence & Noise dress. What's more, I trekked over to Urban to try it on this afternoon and the material is thick enough to go braless (at least if you're a C cup or below; my apologies to the more curvaceous ladies, I have felt your pain and it scared me onto a treadmill). I'm all for visible bra straps, generally speaking, but they would ruin this. Even Carrie Bradshaw would agree. Any item of clothing that lets me show off my lats but not my high beams is a winner in my book.