Spotted this silk, aqua jumpsuit on Behati Prinsloo at a Victoria’s Secret event and fell head over heels. It reminds me a favorite dress by Rory Beca x F21 I nearly wore to death last spring/summer — how perfect would this be to have on rotation for those days when dresses are just too much work?
It’s one of those pieces that take a woman from day to night seamlessly. Pair it with wedges, a messy sidebraid and nothing but bronzer on the cheeks for day, and take it into night by pulling your hair back into a sleek, high pony or topknot, adding a pair of big earrings, and switching into strappy nude heels.
Let me try to get my Pucci into that. Maybe with some fishing line and Crisco (if special requests can be taken, I prefer extra virgin olive oil, I might as well get a little DIY spa treatment out of this affair) it’ll reach the halfway point before cutting off all circulation. Stand there and look pretty, you say? I could if that were my intention. But try me and I’ll knock ya: just because I’m in a straitjacket from the waist down does not mean my arms aren’t free to take a swinging hook.
I have my first degree black belt, you know.
Now the strangest thing of all – yes, I do have my black belt – is that I did manage to get my Pucci into a zero. No squeezing, no unsightly shimmying or corsetry involved. No Crisco, no olive oil. I’m slumped; (American) sizing continues to fascinate me.
Which brings me to this: stop looking at the tags. Numbers are just numbers – don’t become fixated on becoming a certain size. Sizing differs from manufacturer to manufacturer, and then from country to country. I’m a size zero in some places, a two in some, a four for most, and a six from time to time. Put me in a changing room overseas (or just across borders) and I’ll probably reach for tens. Squeeze into a smaller size, and what – congratulations? There’s no prize for this sort of self-deprecation. You’re lying to you. Stop yourself: forcing what doesn’t feel right isn’t neither beneficial to your self-confidence, nor is it doing your body justice. Wear the size that fits you perfectly, regardless of the number or letter, and you’ll look good always.
“But if you tame me, we’ll need each other. You’ll be the only boy in the world for me. I’ll be the only fox in the world for you.”
. . .
Try to catch the wind and you’ll only feel it slipping through your fingers; do the same to a restless soul and she’ll only throw her head back and laugh, laugh with the wind, the sun, the stars, before leaving you wondering where she might’ve gone the next morning.
A word of advice: you might have a better chance of getting her attention in the wintertime, when she’s surrounded by nothing but cold and wind and in need of a warm hands for her own gloveless ones (she’s a stubborn one, this girl, and no amount of pretty cashmere will get between her and her iPhone). In the summer she’s one of those free spirits. A hippie, if you will, just not one of those Coachella types. Single, living, loving. She’s barely able to commit to a top and bottom in this heat; don’t even think about trying to tame her heart.
Maintenant: The one and only Candice Swanepoel wearing all-white ensembles to absolute perfection. I love a monochrome look; it makes looking polished easy, for one, and never fails to elongate the body. And while black is always a go-to option, wearing white head to toe offers a fresh change as we shift – albeit slowly – from winter to summer. (I think spring decided to take a vacation this year…)
Just give me a few weeks to bronze up (and a few more to work on the pins and buns) first before I slip into a pair of white skinnies though, yeah?
It’s been a while since I’ve done any s u n s a l u t a t i o n s (or Tracy Anderson, for that matter); it’s just been forget the snooze and
go, go, GO!
6 a.m. wakeup call. then it’s 3 a.m.
finally, permission to sleep.
( r e p e a t . )
It’s been a while since I’ve had a moment to just b r e a t h e .
Stretch out my legs, arch into downward dog, and stretch again on the floor. In nothing but a men’s flannel shirt – a favorite of mine – against cool, wooden planks.
It’s been a while since I’ve indulged. Did nothing. Do nothing. Be nothing, but a flannel-cloaked girl on the floor of her bedroom, vegging out on blueberry bread and banana and a good movie. Think nothing. Just being. No thinking or writing or dancing until my feet bleed.
The plan’s to wake up in rustled white sheets. Greet the sun at noon - namaste – with a gentle forward bend, and fall right back into bed.
After all, it’s been a while.
( a girl can dream though; i’ll sleep when i’m dead. )