Supergas On The Loose

HERE WE COME. 

If your short-term memory is in working order, you might recall that yesterday's post unveiled my current choice for the perfect walking shoe: Superga sneakers.

I realize that Supergas are by no means new and undiscovered. They've been around for awhile. My first encounter with them was in 7th grade when a girl in my class started wearing a pair she had purchased in Italy. I remember thinking oh, cool sneakers, but that was pretty much it. 

Fast forward to the current spot I am occupying on the non-facebook timeline that is my life, and Supergas have once again cropped up in my brain space. This time, however, I took the leap from cool shoes to I want to own you. And so far it's been grand.

These pictures are from yesterday's inaugural sneaker spin, in which I demonstrate how Supergas look AWESOME with skirts. And I know you can't see me right now, but I am currently wearing them with pants as I type these words, and guess what, people?! They also look awesome with pants. 

Not every sneaker has the ability to successfully jive with whatever else you might be wearing. I mean, just the other day I decided to walk 50 blocks to meet some friends for lunch, and since my Supergas hadn't arrived yet, I resigned myself to wearing a pair of old New Balance running sneakers. Needless to say, this particular choice of footwear did not work well with my outfit (a cotton dress and lime green clutch). My friends mocked my appearance. I ate my food and shrugged. I had wanted to arrive for lunch looking cooly chic, but I also wanted to avoid mangled feet. I ultimately valued the latter over the former, BUT NOW I DON'T HAVE TO CHOOSE, GUYS. And as a 21st-century Gen Y female, I love it when one of my million daily choices is eliminated right before my eyes. Boom poof gone thx.

Floaty blouse + embellished skirt + shoes you can actually walk in = party at my house.

So call it a miracle, or call it (more accurately), a superior sneaker design concept. I am hooked on these shoes. By the by, they also have great arch support and somehow manage to slenderize my ankles just as successfully as a pair of high heels. 

The sneakers even look great with super ladylike touches like brooches. BROOCHES! This is all so magical.

Valentino blouse, Ladakh skirt, Superga sneakers, Chanel scarf, brooch from my mom's closet.

The Perfect Walking Shoe (An Update)

Let's pretend for a minute that I'm the spunky, long-haired heroine of a young adult fantasy novel with a holographic book jacket. My name is probably five syllables long and I've been trained extensively in the female arts a.k.a. harpsichord playing and such. But here's the catch because there's always a catch and usually it appears around Chapter 2: I'm actually really rare and special and not like other girls and willing to make sacrifices and cut my hair off and defy castle rules and go on adventures and stuff because I know there's more to life than this!

In the next part of your stereotypical sword swinging princess tale, I would probably head out to hunt some dragons with the menz and subsequently discover a lot about myself and what it's like to swap saliva with well-chiseled teenage males who challenge me with their wit but also comfort me with their muscles.

Except in MY story, as told on this blog, I venture forth on a much more important quest involving an equal amount of determination and only slightly fewer weapons...

Mine is a continued quest for the perfect pair of walking shoes (with only a couple, very age-appropriate makeouts thrown in for good measure).

The reason I am equating my search for shoes with that of a willful, fictional she-hero's pursuit of mystical beasts comes down to some key commonalities, namely: a super cool chick, a firm belief in the existence of magical creatures (like fire-breathing dragons and/or shoes that are simultaneously attractive and comfortable enough to walk in for many miles), enough patience and pickiness and knowhow to set out and stop for nothing until discovering the very best of these magical creatures, and an Instagram account for proper documentation along the way.

So anyways, back to the story. I searched high and low for the perfect walking shoes. I searched under rocks, inside caves, and on the pages of the Internet. I encountered many important questions over the course of my journey. Should I opt for another pair of tried and true wedge sneakers? What about Keds? Nike Air Maxes? Oxfords? Tevas? The paper shoes they give you at nail salons?? There were lots of options, but none of them felt right. 

Then, one day, I found myself dressed in all denim on a side street in Soho with two friends and a couple of quarter-sized cupcakes. That's when we saw the Superga store. Upon entry, we were greeted with a veritable rainbow of footwear--there were silver foil sneakers, American flag sneakers, mauve corduroy sneakers, red glitter sneakers, six different shades of blue sneakers... my friends and I tried on so many Supergas, the single salesman probably mentioned us during a particularly harrowing meta hipster therapy session later that night with his goldfish. 

The thing is, I knew when I slipped on the first pair (in classic white), I had finally happened on THE shoes--the perfect walking shoes. Not only were they loin-shudderingly comfortable, they also looked freaking great. They looked just as awesome with my jeans as they did with another customer's filmy chiffon skirt. They weren't too bulky or too precious or too geriatric--they were the perfect, updated cool-ass chic walking shoe, ready and waiting to transport me in comfortable style from downtown to uptown and back again. 

I ultimately decided that a certain pale grey linen pair were my Superga soulmates of choice, but the store did not carry them in my size, so I ended up ordering them on Shopbop as soon as I got home. They arrived yesterday, and I'm about to take them out for their first spin around the block(s). 

Three cheers for dragon-slaying and other mountainous feats worthy of novels and blister-free walking. Tune in tomorrow for a glimpse at their debut.

Start Your Weekend Right

Because it's Friday and therefore the best, allow me to assist in making it even best[er]. Earlier this week, my friend sent me a link to a Buzzfeed article with what is possibly the best title of all time: "Everything You Forgot About the July 2003 Issue of Vanity Fair." 

Whether or not you were, in fact, a reader of Vanity Fair in 2003 and thusly in a position to forget or remember such things (as for me, I was busy being eleven and stuff), it's safe to say that every single human on the planet should be privy to the contents of this article.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions right off the bat (I know I do), but since this is a fashion blog, can we start with why is everyone on the cover dressed in varying shades of puce? PUCE! Okay your turn. 

There's nothing like a pillow fight between a future vampire, mommy, and prison inmate taking place in what looks like a room where Hugh Hefner would flock to spend some quality "me" time. Amiright? My eyeballs are inundated with so much uncomfortable innocence.

Mandy, Mandy, Mandy. Am I the only one who still enjoys the occasional listen to "Only Hope" on a cloudy day? Hmm?? P.S. we all need to wear more halter tops.

Vanity Fair really pulled out all the stops with the styling on this shoot. Like, Raven's eyeshadow totes matches the wallpaper. Going forward, I plan on coordinating my look with many an interior. What's a good lipstick for the inside of a dermatologists' office? 

LOLZ INFINITY LOLZ. I'm really surprised the Olson twins have not mandated the destruction of all copies of this photo. Not only is their hair looking totally normal and shiny, but they are also wearing form-fitting clothing, and there are no iced coffees in sight. Most importantly, Mary Kate's bra straps are showing here on purpose, whereas now she probs doesn't even own bras. GOSH teendom is so raw.

Allow me to introduce you to a knee-less Alexis Bledel and Amanda Bynes holding on to a magically suspended bar against the backdrop of what looks like a perfectly lovely day. Gravity is for losers, and so is the ground, apparently. Also, according to their answers to some grueling interview questions featured on the floating pink squares (see above), Bynes possesses "eight" Juicy Couture outfits while Bledel has "none." Let's chew on that info for awhile. 

So is your life officially changed OR WHAT? 

What About YOU?

If you read yesterday's post, you are aware that summer is fast approaching, and with it, a number of personal identity transformations both fashion-related and otherwise. (If you have not read yesterday's post, DO IT, ya crazy kid). After explaining how my own summertime self-actualizing shares a particular kinship with Isabel Marant's Summer 2013 collection, I started to wonder about YOU (by which I mean readers of this blog besides my mom). If you, like me, are on the verge of experiencing a seasonal renaissance of well-sunned selfhood and the corresponding heartfelt connection to a certain look/designer/collection/trend, I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT. I'm curious like George here, people. This is cool and important stuff.

Maybe your brain strings have yet to latch on to a summer fashion spirit animal. Don't worry, pals, My Tomayto's got you covered. I assembled a round-up of possible identity potentializing brands and their duds to get your respective balls rolling. Take a look and see what resonates with you (it's basically sartorial speed dating, so please bring snacks and friends).

I say tomayto, you say tomahto. I say Isabel Marant, you say........

1) Zimmermann? (Cue manic pixie dream females with street savvy.)

Shop the Zimmermann identity: playsuit, similar cap, underwire bikini top, dress, one-piece swimsuit, shorts (made for kids but you get the idea).

2) Mara Hoffman? (Come hither, ye messy (not dirty) glamazons.)

Shop the Mara Hoffman identity: bikini top, bermuda shorts, dress, cutout collar, one-piece bathing suit.

3) Dolce & Gabbana? (For the approachable sophisticate with a secret second piercing.)

Shop the Dolce & Gabbana identity: dress, lace bra, earrings, shorts, raffia bag, skirt.

4) Clover Canyon? (Something hyphenated is your name, and psychedelic prints are your game.)

Shop the Clover Canyon identity: cropped tank, skirt, sleeveless top, shorts, pants.

5) J. Crew? (You crunch numbers, light up rooms, and run snapchat.)

Shop the J. Crew identity: capri pants, cuff bracelet, panama hat, skirt, sneakers, sweater, sunglasses, shorts.

6) Calvin Klein? (Summer is the only movie set you need.)

Shop the Calvin Klein identity: blazer, sandals, strapless top, skirt, pants.

7) 3.1 Phillip Lim (Attention: bookish city girls with the best zingers.)

Shop the 3.1 Phillip Lim identity: tank, skirt, sunglasses, dress, jacket, purse, loafers.

8) Lacoste? (Calling all ironic prepsters!!!)

Shop the Lacoste identity: Short sleeved shirt, mini skirt, visor, watch, scarf, wristlet, pullover, sweatband, sneakers. 

Soooooo, if your review of these delightfully summer-ready brands resulted in a discovery of the cheese to your macaroni (a.k.a. the style counterpart to your summer identity doodling), PLEASE TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS. Luv u. 

Identity Doodling and Isabel Marant

I am having a seasonally-induced identity crisis. Basically, I know, deep down, that I am meant to wear an exorbitant amount of Isabel Marant over the course of the impending warmer months, specifically her Summer 2013 collection. If I had a fairy godmother or the cash equivalent, I would most likely try to acquire the entirety of said collection for myself because it is just that good. (Unfortunately her stuff is quite expensive, so I am mostly resigned to a distanced lusting behind the screen of my laptop and occasional attempts at finding lookalike substitutes for my favorite pieces.)

In psychoanalyzing this phenomenon, I have concluded two things. First, fashion is crazy cool because of is its inherently transportive nature--depending on your sartorial inclinations du jour, you can visually embody whatever evolving version of self-perception makes you feel most powerful at a given point in time. Different clothes, designers, and collections resonate different people accordingly. In consumers' discourse with designers, we each have our own, constantly changing definition of what makes an It Girl It. Second, there's something about summertime that seems particularly suited to stylistic reinvention-- or at least actualization of some kind. Perhaps I'm simply speaking from the perspective of someone who's entering what feels like a rather seminal period in the grand scheme of life--the summer before my senior year of college--but I think it might be more than that. Despite the fact that it occurs without fail every year, summer can be anyone's quasi-crossroads. And because I can't find a better way of saying it myself, let's all turn to page blahblah in The Fortress of Solitude when Lethem describes summer as "that inviting medium for doodling in self-transformation." Boom boom pow. It's so darn true. Summer's naturally slower pace is ripe for the absentminded, opportunistic creativity of doodling selfhood, not to mention the helpful encouragement of that thing called sunshine. The evolution of individual fashion is inevitably swept up in this atmospheric sense of summertime transformation and possibility. You can be and do so many things, your identity is up for the shaping, and clothing (yes, clothing) can carry out a significant part of the visual, tangible portion of this process. IN SUM, IT IS AN AWESOME TIME ALL AROUND.

Speaking personally, Isabel Marant's designs just seem to resonate with my particular vision of selfhood as summer approaches. There is an ease and confidence to her spring collection that I find appealing (read: I want to embody). I want the be The Girl who rocks a one-shoulder printed dress reminiscent of Tarzan's chicest Jane, The Girl who wears leather shorts in the summer without a trace of thigh sweat, The Girl who understands the everlasting cool of Jane Birkin, The Girl who achieves that elusive sartorial combination of Parisian Americana, and The Girl who stylistically nails ingenue-meets-sex-appeal-meets-vacation-meets-1970s. In other words, Isabel (can I call you that?) just understands who I want to be and therefore understands what I want to wear. In other words, we obviously have an uncanny spiritual connection. And if you're wondering what came first: the chicken (and my seasonal identity flux) or the egg (and my undying love for Isabel Marant), I do not have the answer yet.

Shop the collage: t-shirt, skirt, necklace, dress, blouse, ring, shoes.

My Grandmother's Closet

Guys, guys, guys, my grandmother (a.k.a. Nonie) let me revel in the goods of her wardrobe over the weekend!!!! This is a really big deal, FYI. It was tacitly understood that I could look, not take, which was a mental disaster for me considering the amazingness of almost every single item in her possession and my affinity for raiding. You really have no idea. 

Truth be told, Nonie is a fashion icon for me in many senses. (And yes am aware of that statement's clichéd nature, but I did refrain from instagramming a pic of my mom nomming her brunch on Mother's Day, so I feel like my cliché quota remains within a reasonable range for now). But Nonie is her own, special breed of the advanced style lot. She's not an Iris Apfel-esque kooky innovator or a purple-haired legend or a billowing white linen pantsuit afficionado. No, my grandmother's fashion talent is simple but deadly in its effectiveness: she has an impeccable eye. 

The contents of her closet are so well chosen, so carefully curated, and so unique, they possess a certain lasting relevance that is almost impossible to replicate in this day and age. I know because I have not tried. My own wardrobe is 100% emblematic of the modern female's lofty struggle to balance the Zara with the Other. It is the product of internet-dwelling, irony infestation, fashion blog stalking, twitter-fueled fads, and a street style loop that won't quit. I marvel at my grandmother's closet because, unlike mine, it is incredibly purposeful--each of her pieces have an heirloom quality, a streamlined sense of dutiful service to the wearer that is bound to last generations. Nonie is of the Old Guard, the pre-Fast Fashion track. I envy the slow build of her wardrobe, the pristinely organized color gradation, the textures, the balance between eclectic and classic...

That being said, I would never give up my millenium-birthed ability to purchase thirty lime-colored Zara clutches for the price of one Chanel purse and Instagram a cool cloud formation while I'm at it. That's the world I live in, and I think it's pretty nifty most of the time. Playing dress-up with my grandmother's things is the perfect dose of a periodic alternate reality. 

After trying on this outfit, I am all about the casual full length evening skirt, possibly because there are few things less casual in this life. But who's to say what I can or cannot wear to Duane Reade on a gum run? I'm also freaking out in love with this Valentino mullet blouse given that it predates our mullet awareness and is therefore an unknowing ancestor of something culturally transformative.

This blouse combines three of my favorite things: court jester sleeves, mixed prints galore, and a musky scent (you'll just have to take my word for it re: that last quality). But seriously I wanted to steal this shirt so badly, mainly because I can already preemptively envision its seamless transition into my wardrobe. Can't you see it with denim cutoffs and cool strappy sandals? Or how about with a black leather mini skirt and these shoes? Hmm??? Genius. AND it goes swimmingly with my adidas gym shorts, which is, like, eerily relevant to my current lifestyle choices and desires. 

I also flipped for this Valentino top because hello unnecessary yet awesome shoulder pads. Is it a tennis polo or a dainty blouse or a gay linebacker uniform? YOU DECIDE. (Side note: I am ready and willing to talk about the weird melanin situation happening in and around my inner elbows. What is going on??? It looks like I have reverse ironing burns or something. Please discuss.)

I love me a good hi-lighter fluid floral. If you were to point out that this Emanuel Ungaro skirt suit makes me look like an extra in a Molly Ringwald movie circa 1985, I would not argue (mainly because that would be the awesomest).

Whether or not my black bra bastardizes my grandmother's awesome sheer Georgio Armani camisole, I think we can all agree that this Chanel eagle clutch is the dopest of all dope clutches. Yes?

Although I'm also partial to these two.

Oh, and this one. (IT HAS A TASSEL, PEOPLE.)

So that's a wonderful fraction my grandmother's closet, still completely relevant to the mind and proclivities of a normal 21-year-old female. Pretty powerful stuff. Who wants to join me for the break-in heist tonight circa 5:30??? Lemme know.

Bermuda Shorts... Courtesy of Dad

In today's My Tomayto installment, I am proud to announce that I have crossed a brand new line. I'm wearing my dad's shorts. 

The way I see it, my father and I have a very special relationship wherein he provides me with 50% of my DNA and a closet full of men's clothing and, in return, I give him my undying love and the occasional hand-knit golf club cover. Which is why I didn't even ask permission before swiping these rad blue shorts from his bureau, partly because I knew he wouldn't really care, but also because I sometimes prefer to delay his perfectly reasonable questions vis à vis my sanity. I mean, my incessant borrowing of his button down shirts is one thing, but shorts? Whole new ball game.

So, dad, let me break it down for you. The trend police have declared, by way of spring 2013's runway collections, that bermuda shorts are in this season (cue fancy siren noise). That's right. Roomy, knee-grazing bermuda shorts. Pictured above, you'll see some evidence via BCBG, Rag & Bone, and Peter Som. As a father, you should be pretty thrilled about this whole longer shorts development, considering that it encourages a level of lower thigh modesty that really can't be matched by other forms of fair weather leg coverage for us females.

Go ahead and high five something sturdy, because while other ladies might be like psh no thanks when it comes to this shift in summer's exposed skin to fabric ratio, I had no doubts about saying UM YES PLEASE. Because despite the extra width that these shorts might add to my overall frame, and despite their utterly man-repellant nature, I won't lie to you: I think they can look really cool. 

And while, sure, I could have gone out and purchased a pair of bermuda shorts made and designed specifically for my gender, I am nothing if not committed to borrowing from the boyz, and this seemed like a good opportunity to further the cause. Plus, dad, you're a slender dude, and we have basically the same size waist, so I feel like I need to capitalize upon that semi-unsettling reality. Let's call it looking on the bright side hashtag girlswithskinnydadsproblems. K?

On a related note, one of my favorite parts about wearing men's clothing is the subsequent process of reasserting that I am, in fact, a girl by adding touches of the über-fem to the rest of my outfit. Feet that look like they've been gift-wrapped are decidedly feminine, and in the best way possible. 

I'm also super pumped about debuting this crossbody clutch, a vintage find from when I was traveling in Marrakech. It was lying in a pile of old jewelry inside one of the Medina souks, covered in dust, but I polished it up as soon as I got back to the states, and now I think it looks decidedly sophisticated. Definitely has a touch of Daisy Buchanan glamor too.

And that's all I've got re: your shorts, dear father. You have excellent taste in fashion-forward womenswear. Do I still get to sit next to you at the dinner table?

J. Crew men's shorts, DSquared2 top, Chanel jacket, O Jour shoes, vintage crossbody clutch (similar look here and here).