getting my fill of flowers

So after I made a big deal about not feeling obligated to write about fashion, I'm going to write about some accessories. Anyway, Saturday here (in Maine) actually felt like spring. I'm not silly enough to get fooled into thinking that it's actually here, but it was so warm and we went for such a nice walk and for a second I saw past the dirty snowbanks to the seasons that make the rest of the time in Maine worth it. And then I went into Stiletto, a sweet little store in the Old Port, and found these:


LOVE. I need them immediately. When I showed them to Ben online tonight, he even said, "You should just order them." Let's be honest, I appreciate an enabler. And also, they remind me of a long-lost, unrequited love circa 2005. Behold:

Now, this isn't the exact model I lusted after (I wasn't crazy about the bamboo handles), but I love the print. A lot. And not only was it not in the budget back then (or now, if I could even find it anywhere to purchase), but I was forced to have it paraded in front of me on the arm of someone who, back then, caused me much pain...

Let's set the scene: It's 2005, Boston Red Sox Spring Training in Fort Myers, Florida. We're waiting to watch the players exit the locker room post-game (a little dorky). I was waiting for one in particular... I would post a pic, but I'm still too angry.

Johnny Damon. Ugh!

Anyway, he finally exited the tunnel with his bleach blond wife, clad in True Religions, and holding on her tan arm... my Gucci bag.

It was depressing, to say the least. But now it's four (um... wow) years later and I'm going to buy these Jack Rogers sandals. Bye bye, winter blues!

Remember that time I was going to write a blog?

UGH. Frustration with myself that I'm sucking at writing this. And it's the worst kind of suck, too-- the kind where you just don't even try, and so you just suck by default. So here we go, I guess-- if it sucks anyway, at least I gave it the old two-years-post-COLLEGE-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life try.

So, new game. I think my biggest problem is that I feel like I limited myself with the fact that the word "styled" is in the title of this blog, making me feel like I need to write about fashion all the time. Which is a little scary. I'm also super literal, if you hadn't noticed, because I'm pretty sure people who weren't ISTJs wouldn't care about that and would just write about whatever they wanted. This reminds me of the time I took a class called "Gendered Memoir" and I wrote ahem, a memoir (that I will never allow anyone to read-- oh you're upset? Don't lie.) that was super disjointed because, hello--how at age 19 are you supposed to scan back through your life and be like okay, that was important moment.. yup, that one, too, and then write them all up and bundle them and say here, here's a nice tidy package of all the things that make me me! Some people just picked a thread, I guess, like eating disorder or cheerleading or "my crazy summer that time" and made it work. But my memoir was all these random bits that didn't really correlate to each other and I guess the first little scene gave them the impression that my memoir was going to be about my "struggle with OCD." Which... hilarious! If you know, me, I guess. So, anyway, it was random and when I think about it I cringe and have secondhand embarrassment for myself. Which I guess is just... regular embarrassment.

So, now that I've really circuitously told you that this isn't necessarily going to be about fashion, I am pledging to post at least every other day. About anything. You're welcome!

the body as a worthy place to live

Every time I put on a pair of pants, I analyze whether or not I think they fit me the same, better, or worse than the last time I wore them. I think about seasons past, when I am sure that I remember that there was at least an inch more room around the waist of my Bermuda shorts, and I despair. There is the occasional high associated with slipping pants up over your behind and realizing that putting your hands in the pockets of these pants might not actually prove a feat. This occurrence is, for me, rarer than the former.

I am so over this tug of war. When I say "over" it, though, I mean that I am so tired of it; not, unfortunately, that I am beyond feeling this way. That, however, is my goal.

Last spring, in my senior seminar for WGSS (Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies), we read a book called Appetites, by Caroline Knapp. A specific fragment, "the body as a worthy place to live" pretty much highlighted itself on the page when I read it, enough so that I wrote it on a sticky note and put it on the wall next to my computer. When I moved out on the bright afternoon following graduation, I removed it from the wall and put it in my wallet, sure that I would need it. It's still there.

Over the last several months, I've thought about this little note, and have been unable to place the exact syntax of the phrase (I guess I was too lazy to get up and read what it actually says). In my head, I kept thinking that it was "a body worthy of living in." Now, not only is that incorrect grammar (never end with a preposition), but it's actually, I've decided, the exact opposite of what Caroline Knapp meant (I write "meant" and not "means," even though I am fairly sure that is incorrect, because I cannot forget that after overcoming her eating disorder [for the most part, I guess?], she died of lung cancer following a long smoking addiction, and this is one of the most poignant facts about this work for me, somehow).

And so, the last few months, I've been going to the gym and thinking about this phrase in the exact opposite way that I meant to when I put it in my wallet. I always knew that it connoted positively, but I don't know what somehow made me reverse it in my head.

Now that I've reminded myself of what it actually says, and means, I'm working on the way in which I make it mean what it's supposed to in my own head, in my own body, which is, I'm deciding, a worthy place to live. Gym-going or not, extra inches in my shorts or not. Unconditionally worthy.

Do I sound convincing?

How do you say "embarrassing" in French?

I love The Hills. Okay? I do. I am unabashedly a big fan, stemming from those early days of Laguna. And no, don't talk to me about Casey or... I don't know, I don't even know any of the names of the wannabes from the more recent seasons. If you're not talking to me about Ste-PHEN or Kristin or Lo, I'm not that interested. It's like the "New Class" of Saved By the Bell way back when. I didn't even like the girl who wore the boldly 1990's boxy leather jacket with the zippers. Alex, maybe? And if I didn't even like a cast member who was around early enough to be so lucky as to share the small screen with Mark-Paul Gosselaar and Mario Lopez, why would I be interested in the little jerks that Screech regrettably returned to teach?

I seriously digress. Laguna. Anyway, they had a good thing with LC, and I'm glad that they held out for her and the resulting Hills. LC gets a lot of flack for being supposedly uninteresting and opportunistic, but there's something a bit charismatic about her that gets me. Partly, it's the fact that I've enjoyed watching her progress from her days of C&C tanks to interlocking C's.

Admittedly, however, there have been the moments that hurt. Standing out most dramatically was her lacking enthusiasm and disrespect upon meeting Marc Jacobs last season. I mean, she didn't even stand up to shake his hand. There was speculation that perhaps she had actually already been acquainted with the famed American designer (to borrow a line from Heidi... Klum, not Montag), hence the lackluster introduction, but really? Meeting MJ on one's own reality show, when said show was largely based on one's desire to make it in fashion, and paying no respect? Really? Anyway, since I never got to put down my thoughts on that moment in Hillstory, I've digressed a bit more. Because really, this is about the worst part of tonight's premiere of The Hills:

Whitney's absolute butchering of the pronunciation of Givenchy. I wish I had a YouTube clip, and I'm sure this will get some press on other blogs, but this was a serious, serious "Really?!" moment for me. And it's times like these when I understand all the cynicism about these girls' positions in fashion, and all the opportunities that they are handed. I mean, Whitney's whole angle during the premiere was about how she "sees herself in styling" and dealing more with the fashion end than the logistics of magazine publishing. Come on, now. Would you like someone to make you some flashcards, Whit? Jhee-von-shee, more or less. You can do it.

So get it together. Brush up on your grown-up Vogue. Do SOMETHING. Because let's be honest: I want to forgive you, and I want to forget... that you ever said that.

I blog in my head.

I do. Really. In fact, it has been 19 days since I first began this blog, and all it consisted of was the title of this post. This is because I have been pondering the idea of a blog for so long that it began to seem almost a bit too overwhelming. I've blogged in my head while driving; I've done it in the shower. I'm hoping that I can give myself a bit of a break by actually putting it down here, but we shall see.

You see, I read so many good blogs, and I am consistently impressed with the quality of their writing. I often go to the first posts on those blogs, and it's interesting to see the ways in which they have progressed. Progress is great, and I look forward to that, but part of me also feels as if this first post should be momentous. But really, I'm building it up too much, as I do often. And so, I find myself almost done, and lacking in content. Oh well!

You can look forward, in theory, to a little bit of fashion, and a fair amount of me. (An aside-- to whom, exactly, am I speaking? [Writing?] That's part of the trouble of this; the unknown nature of my audience. I suppose, if you find yourself here... Welcome.) Alright... enough now.