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SPRING IS HERE

The personal pages of a New York City based fashionista's notebook

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Hair Care 101, the Must Haves.

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Finding Purpose: the Long Way.

I’ve spent the past two years of my life attempting to avoid mentioning what my job title is to every human being that I’ve encountered. I mean, try mustering up the balls to exclaim, “I’m a fashion blogger!” to a dinner table full of baffled onlookers; rarely will that statement elicit a positive or well-regarded response. Recently, though, I experienced a few ah-ha moments that crystallized my understanding of why I feel embarrassed, if not blatantly ashamed, at the mention of my career choice.

The catalyst for this line of thinking occurred during New York Fashion Week when I decided that with two years of blogging under my belt, I would attempt to emulate some of my favorite influencers, participating in as much front-row action as possible. In retrospect, I allowed that seven-day interim to serve as a sweeping benchmark of how much success that I had — or had not – achieved during my stretch in the industry. After styling and steaming enough outfits to induce pangs of nausea at the thought of receiving my next Amex statement, I became unrelenting in my pursuit of PR reps who hadn’t responded to my initial requests for admission to shows (If your invite somehow gets “lost in the mail,” simply forego any measure of dignity or self-respect and ask to attend anyway; it’s not desperation, it’s ambition, I told myself!)

With each event that I participated in, I became increasingly fluent in the verbiage of Fashion Week dialect. It included much of the following: wear avante-guarde everything in a silent quest to get ‘papped’ while walking into shows, ensure that someone is on-hand to Snapchat photographers clamoring around you so that you can demonstrate your it-girl status on social media, produce an onslaught of instastories when sitting front row that showcase your stellar vantage point, and never mingle with anyone who has a lesser number of followers than you do. Instead, certify that your girlsquad includes only those who have achieved the same – or a greater – measure of success. To be clear, this mentality doesn’t apply to a number of the deeply humble, warm and hard-working women who I’ve met in this industry, but by and large, it’s an accurate representation of what I repeatedly observed. Although I logically understood the absurdity of the situation, in the midst of my excitement, it didn’t matter to me. I, too, slipped into outfits for the purpose of having my picture taken, googled my name to see if the images had been published online and proudly announced that I was walking into insert ___ (prestigious show name here).

And then, in the unexpected way that it always does, disaster hit. Without getting into the minutiae of it all, it suffices to say that I became violently, harrowingly ill. Clawing my way forward, though, I insisted that I’d still make it to the Alexander Wang show. After all, Wang is to New York what Chanel is to Paris, I reasoned — at least from a popularity perspective, and I’d spent weeks begging a close friend for a coveted ticket of entry. If I could still manage to look presentable enough to attend, I might be able to salvage what was left of Fashion Week. Standing beside some of the world’s most distinguished magazine editors and celebrities, I might even feel confident about my own identity as a blogger. Opting for a retro glam look, I sat silently through hair and makeup, praying that I wouldn’t vomit on myself. But before I could slip into my metallic mini, the Carven number that I reserved for this very occasion, the room began to spin. Like a prom queen, plastered for the first time – eyes darkly lined, hair messily teased – I strew my body across the bed and set out to take a quick power nap. When I woke up the following morning, sun spilling through the windows, I was overcome by a tsunami of self-loathing. How could I have missed the biggest show of New York Fashion Week? I single-handedly destroyed my chance at playing an important role in the action.

While most members of the industry then jetted off to Europe for another month of sitting in front of Gigi, Kendal and Bella dominated catwalks, I sulked alone in my apartment, wondering if I would ever truly make something out of this endeavor, out of this “career.” What was the purpose of my infrequentlty updated blog, anyway? And then, I received an email. It read:

“Brooke:

After a decade of watching fashion bloggers take over my blogger feed and then my instagram (and then my magazines, etc.), I realized just how badly they were making me feel about myself. What was once inspirational (regular girls in affordable clothes!) become another version of celebrity, and yet another reminder of how I’m not loved/pretty/thin/rich/successful enough. So I quit them a few years ago and never looked back.

Your Instagram popped up for me and intrigued me. I finally felt I saw something new and different in terms of the looks you were putting together. I headed over to your blog and then proceeded to spend the night reading all your archives. And I want to be 100% honest: yes, you’re beautiful and thin and decked out in Gucci like many of the fashion bloggers out there. But it quickly became evident to me that you’re smart, a stellar writer, motivated, and despite your material success and wealth, actually give a shit about current events and being a good person. On top of all that, we share some similar life experiences – I lived in NYC for four years (the best years), I too went to law school, and I too struggle with depression.”

I felt like the young, female version of Bernie Madoff, running a ponzie scheme rather than living an authentic existence. I’d just dedicated a month of my life to excessive self-promotion — glorifying the most vapid, vacuous aspects of our culture, falling prey to the ideals in which I claimed to be so disinterested in. When I first entertained the idea of starting a blog, my intent was to interact with women on a personal, word-of-mouth basis. I wanted to parlay the resolutions that I’ve explored regarding self-acceptance, for instance, into digestible, implementable pieces of advice. As someone who was once a suicidal, self-loathing wallflower, I sought to serve as a vessel, channeling decades of intensive therapy and physical/mental improvements into one digital forum. The blog was never supposed to be about me, per se; it was meant to be about you. And yes, there’s an obvious visual component to this, which I believe should be largely aspirational, creative, and fun (hence, my retro glam death glare in the midst of December atop a subway platform), but ultimately, there’s a huge difference between a career and a calling. I mean, even if I were to become the most well-known, celebrated blogger in the entire universe, would you be that riveted by seeing my backstage blurbs and front-row highlights, anyway? Maybe you would; those things are unquestionably fun, but you can also observe them in glossy magazines and on E! News. I’ve come to realize that after undergoing various forms of trauma, abuse, mental health issues — and finally managing to feel strong and happy regardless, the most beneficial thing that I have to offer you is transparency with respect to the many ways in which you can do the same.

[Dress] Zara [Shoes] Zara [Clutch] Gucci [Earrings] Bauble Bar

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Hair Care 101, the Must Haves.

In case I haven’t emphasized this point ad nauseam to you yet, let me just say this: I’m a B-I-G believer in the age-old adage that a woman’s hair is the single most important accessory that she’ll ever own. For the greater portion of my life, I’ve had a compulsive fixation with all things related to fashion and beauty. While the large majority of my social media content places a focus on piecing together outfits, I believe that well-styled hair is as important to the completion of a look as any garment, purse, bracelet, manicure or makeup product will ever be.

Prior to learning how to properly blow-dry my own wavy tresses, I felt as if my mane had a mind of its own — that it had the power to make or break my day depending upon how it looked. In high school, I concluded that I shouldn’t “waste” a killer outfit on a bad hair day. As such, I resorted to sneaking into my mother’s laundry room, laying my hair on top of the ironing board and running the 400-degree powered machine over my frizzy strands. Through the grace of God, I still have a face.

Nowadays, when I receive questions about how I tame my tresses, I make sure to emphasize that the single most important factor is always a great blow-dry; there’s no skipping that step. I’ve been using the InfinitiPro by Conair 3Q Compact Dryer (Model #: 3QMS) Click here, which not only provides results that last for a couple of days, but serves up great texture, shape, and volume, as well. Here’s the thing: as much as I’d like to take up permanent residence in Andre’s chair, somehow, that’s just not a realistic option for me, which is why I consistently look to my 3Q Dryer to provide the coveted results that I crave.

Not only is it pretty to look at (#pinkandgold), it’s compact, and easy to travel with. The 3Q Compact Dryer is as cost effective as it is reliable. Affording me with the perfect combination of strength and temperature options, my 3Q Dryer allows me to get salon worthy results on my own. After sifting through a number of pricier hair care products throughout the years, I’m happy to report that this option is significantly better than anything else that I’ve ever tried, and that it allows me to stay shoot ready — sans the iron — wherever I go. Available at Ulta.com (Click here) $79.99, or at Bed, Bath & Beyond Click here!

 

Thank you to Conair for sponsoring this post  

 

 

 

 

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4.22.17., Our Wedding Day.

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Shortly after Celestino takes Beyoncé’s advice and decides to put a ring on it (i.e. my finger), I talk to my soon to be sister in law about the process of tying the knot. As a recent newlywed with a knack for throwing balmy bashes in the comfort of her own sun-kissed, South American backyard, Bea’s advice concerning the direction of our wedding lingers in my head in the way that a hyper-catchy #JBiebs song always manages to do.

When it comes to the utter despair pure bliss of planning the big day, the first decision that many a future bride contends with usually has to do with budget. She might ask herself something along the lines of, “Should I spend an excessive amount of time and money creating a fantastical, if not over-the-top, event in which every last detail is painstakingly mulled over until it’s finally effectuated or do I opt for something more economically savvy and relaxed, so that I can enjoy this experience in its entirety?” If you know me at all (and even if you don’t, perhaps), then you’ve already concluded that I took the first route. My wedding day was joyous, magical, wrought with adoration and gratitude for Celestino, my husband, but the process of getting there was overwhelmingly, exceedingly difficult. Although I never gave much thought to the specifics of an eventual strut down the aisle, I ultimately found myself struggling to reach an onslaught of self-imposed standards of unattainable perfection.

In retrospect, I wonder why I felt so compelled to pull that slew of all nighters, saving photos of orchid arrangements to one of about three hundred individually labeled Pinterest boards. For months leading up to the day, I operated under a thick, low-hanging air of intensive pressure. It was my responsibility, I thought, to provide an outrageously beautiful and entertaining weekend for every last one of our guests. AND, if I didn’t find the wherewithal to whip my body into tip-top shape, get glowy, poreless looking skin – which, by the way, is a feat that can only be achieved through the excessive use of Face Tune — adeptly arched eyebrows, white teeth, lengthy lashes, and Oscar worthy hair and makeup, then I’d angrily berate myself. “Why can’t you just exhibit some measure of self-discipline for once, Brooke? You’re really going to let that juice cleanse remain untouched, sitting in the kitchen cabinet for weeks on end?

You’re failing.

You’re failing.

You’re failing.

I’m not sure why I allowed my wedding day to serve as something that was indicative of how perfectly I could perform. Did I fall prey to the archaic belief that tying the knot is the single most important event in a woman’s life, and that, as such, she mustn’t leave any room for error? Or, was it a result of the fact that I planned everything without the help of my mother, which catalyzed an internal desire to prove that I could handle it all on my own? I would be the girl who didn’t need a warm hug during a stressful moment, or a person to shop for party favors with, or a stupid bridal shower, anyway.

Immediately prior to the start of my wedding weekend — and at the height of my anxiousness — I woke up to a text message from my cousin David. While flying up from Austin, Texas, he snapped a photo of his wife and two small children on the plane. Quietly watching cartoons to help pass the time, both kiddos sported colorful headsets and sat comfortably in their seats. With that, it hit me: regardless of what I had or hadn’t completed, of what would or wouldn’t transpire, all of the people who I love most made special plans to ensure that they would be with me on this day. What’s more, after an admittedly rough decade in the romance department, I was finally about to marry my soulmate, committing myself to him in the presence of God. Upon receiving Dave’s message, and thinking about all of the plane tickets, babysitters, and days off from work that people arranged for, I made a devout resolution to enjoy the weekend no matter what.

My wedding day turned out to be utterly dreamy and magical, but that’s not to say that all of the details came to fruition in exactly the way that I planned. In fact, a number of things went “wrong.” It rained. My dress got dirty. The party favors that I ordered never arrived. But, it was a wildly inexplicable feeling to watch every single person whose played a deeply impactful role in my life come together under the same roof for the purpose of celebrating love. Their light yielded a radiant, adrenaline-packed euphoria that kept us floating on top of the city (literally, sort of?) until 4 am.

At the outset of the planning process, the advice that my sister in law gave me was this: “People will tell you that your wedding is really nothing more than a couple of hours of your life, and ultimately, that’s true. But I had so much fun on that night, and I couldn’t be happier that I planned everything the way that I did. If I could live that one party over and over again every single year, I would.” Given the opportunity to press rewind and to start from scratch, I’d still listen to Bea. I’d forget about practicality (because, let’s be real, I’ve never been great at paying it much respect, anyway) and throw the exact same bash. But I’d also make a conscious effort to recognize that nothing in life is perfect, myself included, and instead of stressing so much over the way that I looked in a dress, I’d only concern myself with ensuring that I had a drink. 😉

[Photos] Fred Marcus Photography

[Dress] Angel Sanchez

[Hair] Andre Davis

[Makeup] Charlotte Tilbury, Maria Riskakis, National Lead Artist

 

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A Girl From New York City Applies For Her Library Card.

Outfit Details:

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Brooke’s Little Pink Book: My Go-To Beauty Gurus.

     

[Jacket] Boden Clothing [Sweater] Thomas Wylde [Leather Pants] JBrand Jeans [Bag] Furla [Booties] Dior

I was recently invited to participate in an upcoming wedding related feature for the Knot, to which I responded with a resounding “YES.” Their Ultimate Planner & Organizer has dutifully served as my most coveted source of sanity throughout the whole happily-ever-after-assuming-we-emerge-from-this-undertaking-alive thing. And so, I spent a hefty chunk of last night drafting responses to a handful of questions related to all things bridal glam. The first inquiry seemed simple, straightforward, harmless enough. It read: “What makes you feel most beautiful?”

I’ve seen this zinger posed to droves of women before me. The most commonly offered, commendable response seems to teeter along the lines of, “I feel most beautiful when I’m lounging around the house without any makeup on, wearing loose fit jeans and my boyfriend’s oversized T-shirt!” That said, I was especially hesitant to offer, “Well, I feel GREAT with a high-quality weave braided into my head, hair blow-dried and beach-waved, cheekbones as perfectly highlighted as they are contoured. Additionally, I’m always game for a good faux glow and a fresh mani/pedi in the color Lollipop by Essie!”

In a culture that inundates the female psyche with visions of wide-set Kate Moss eyes, Kendall Jenner lean legs and Kim Kardashian…everything, there’s a distinct standard of physical flawlessness that women are consistently urged to meet. Comments like, “Wow, she looks half her age!” (Sorry, but, why is it so praiseworthy to appear habitually twenty-five, anyway? I mean, what’s all that egregious about looking sixty when one is, in fact…sixty?) or “Her body is goals AF!” — generally in reference to a Victoria’s Secret Angel strutting down the runway – overwhelm our media-saturated society, trickling down into even the most rudimentary, casual conversations.

So what am I saying here? That I’m a byproduct of a broken system. That I’ve squandered monthly s-a-l-a-r-i-e-s trying to create an “interpretation” of Candice Swanapoel’s bright blonde locks on top of my own dark-rooted head. I’m not the girl who can honestly state that she feels most beautiful with completely bare skin and exposed stretch marks. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve learned to identify my own unique attributes. Because, here’s the thing: all of us have our individual strengths. I’m not being Polly Anna about this either; I’m being dead-ass serious with you here. Dead.ass. Nowadays, I choose to place a focus on learning how to maintain and enhance my appearance in a way that makes me feel my best, rather than on berating myself for failing to resemble Romi Strijd. Below, you’ll find some of the tried & true experts who’ve helped me to do just that.

Haircut, Extensions Expert — Andre Davis, Stylist, Julien Farel Salon & Spa: Renowned for placing a scrupulous emphasis on promoting luscious locks and healthy hair before all else, Andre has single-handedly been taming my tortured tresses for nearly a decade now. When it comes to my ‘do, he’s acutely aware of the fact that I like to rock an uncontrived and editorially inspired look, which is an aesthetic that he guided me towards at the outset of our follicular friendship. In addition to providing stellar shapings, Andre inserts and upkeeps my extensions – you know, the ones that I’ll never [willingly] opt to remove and/or stop jabbering about. And, as if all of that weren’t enough (!), my little hair whisperer also manages to create subtle, swoon-worthy waves every time that he takes a dryer to my dome. It suffices to say that Andre will be safely stowed away in my bridal suite throughout the duration of wedding weekend – put the lotion in the basket style. Hehehe.

Hair Color — Abby Haliti, Stylist, Julien Farel Salon & Spa: After the aforementioned incident in which I insisted on trying to become a sun-kissed South African supermodel (I mean…lol), I quickly realized the significance of having a talented and trusted colorist on call. Never again will I place my tush in anyone’s chair besides Abby’s. Hand-painting rich brown hues and golden highlights into my hair, Abby is exceptionally experienced, calm and confident – so much so that her peaceful demeanor makes me nervous. After enduring lots of rainbow-streaked, tear-inducing debacles throughout my history with highlights, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that color on a brunette can easily equate to…purple. But when you take a seat in the mix master’s chair (Get it?!), not only will you be able to relax, but you’ll also strut right out of the salon with prismatic definition that looks as natural as it does flattering.

Airbrush Spray-Tan – Anna Stankiewicz, Louise O’Connor Salon & Spa: If you’ve followed me for more than like five minutes, then you’ve probably already concluded that I’m always yearning for a good faux glow. Once upon a time, I only spray-tanned in advance of special events. But after my initial visit to Anna, I became a cult-like follower of all things bronzed. Anna is a co-creator of the Suvara spray-tan formula, which is one hundred percent organic, so you’ll never run the risk of encountering funky chemicals – like, um, formaldehyde – when she paints you perfect. But beyond her famous formula, she’s also known for mixing custom color for her clients, offering up a little bit of contour magic in all of right places, as well. While I generally plead with Anna to make me as dark as possible (It’s the Long Island in me), she’s actually regaled for her red carpet worthy glow. Per her expert advice, on my wedding day, I’m going to opt for a “SprayTan? What spray tan?! This is just my natural joy resonating through!” type of a look.

Facial – Ildi Pekar, Ildi Pekar Skin Care: In doing my bridal glam, I finally took the initiative (at twenty-nine) to put some measure of effort into my skincare regime. While my trainer has me drinking a pitcher of water a day, opening up the flood gates of hell, mind you, Ilkdi Pekar does all of the grunt work when it comes to extractions, brightening, and microdermabrasion. What separates her from the rest? Well, beyond her roster of above-mentioned supermodel clients, Ildi is incredibly gentle, so much so that I didn’t want to get up from the heated, blanketed bed that I lounged on throughout the treatment. In addition to providing a killer facial that had me looking tighter and brighter (that is: visible results and instant gratification – weee!), Ildi didn’t try to sell any of her products to me either, which is sort of unheard of in a spa-like environment. Instead, when I probed her, she put me on a very realistic maintenance schedule, and suggested that I “stick to what already works” (meaning my current skincare go-to’s) prior to my upcoming wedding. An esthetician that’s as genuine as she is effective? I’ll be back to Ildi asap.

Laser Hair Removal – Olga, Ajune Medical Spa: Also in the vein of bridal prep, I recently opted to do laser hair removal. As a Czech/Greek halfbreed, I have pale, Eastern-European skin and dark, Mediterranean hair. So…yeah, thanks, universe. When Olga handed me two stress balls to squeeze in the event of an outburst, I admittedly got a little bit nervous. I have a relatively high threshold for pain and a penchant for engaging in elective cosmetic procedures, so I was game to have the bush wacked for good without uttering any complaints. Laser hair removal generally takes about six to nine sessions to work, but after the initial experience is completed, the hair is said to grow back somewhat more thinly, and the process itself hurts much less. That said, in the interest of full disclosure, the first session is killer with a capital “K.” When I handed Olga her deflated stress balls back, I realized that it was of paramount importance to go to someone who I had the utmost faith in for this one. Olga has been lasering for years, and she works out of Dr. Mauro C. Romita’s office on Fifth Avenue, so I took solace in knowing that I wouldn’t drop dead on her table. When I finished the procedure, I called my bestie to pout about how much it hurt, and she assured me that it would be well worth it when the word “razor” no longer needed to be a part of my vocabulary. I couldn’t argue with her on that.

Manicure/Pedicure — Essie Flagship, Samuel Shiriqui Salon: One of my favorite things about New York City is the fact that there’s a cheapie nail salon on virtually every other block. For purposes of convenience, I usually visit one that’s close to my apartment. But on special occasions, the Essie Flagship never ceases to impress the absolute heck out of me. Offering spa-like mani/pedis, a (literal) wall of colors from which to choose, and uber artistic technicians, your “regular” mani/pedi will wear like shellac. Warning: it might be difficult to shlep back to your local salon after visiting Essie’s Flagship location.

X,

Brooke

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Winter, NYC.

 

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Pink Puffer.

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Marriage.

I’ve spent the last decade of my life in two long term, exclusive relationships. The first one ended in a sensational, public debacle — one that, as many of the objective, surrounding parties to the situation would eventually come to point out (I mean, better late than never, right assholes loved ones?) was as inevitable as it was austerely ominous.

The second one materialized into the great love of my life. And before you start dry heaving, let me just say this: I know how that sounds, but it’s the utmost truth, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. Still though, I’ve consistently prohibited my brain from even considering the idea that I might aptly fall within the purview of a relationship type of a girl. Labeling myself like that felt like tossing up a billowy white flag of defeat and acquiescing to the widely held public perception that as a young, well-coiffed female with a guy in her life – any guy, really – I must be frivolous, absurd, weak, dependent.

In a world that doesn’t take women who wear too much makeup all that seriously (and really, who’s to say how much is “too much,” and UM, why does it matter in the first place?!), how could I cop to the fact that I consider my bond with my fiancé to be the single most fulfilling aspect of my life? That although I’ve been blessed with a satisfying career and a number of longstanding, wildly-inappropriate-inside-joke-laden friendships, at the end of it all, I’m most eager to come home to my hubby, forcing him to the watch The Affair with me on Showtime, while cuddling on the couch and downing various forms of toxic corn syrup (Starburst, Skittles, Swedish Fish) out of an oversized, multi-colored plastic bag?

As a child, I picked up on the idea that becoming anything other than a completely financially and emotionally independent woman was the equivalent of transgressing into a sad, harrowing cliché of a thing. When I’d go to work with my mother — think shadow day – I’d observe that she occupied one of the most impressive offices in the space. It had a large desk that travelled up the wall and around the room, a white marker board with important red notes scrolled, and a sky high, sprawling view. More often than not, I’d roam the entirety of the floor, introducing myself to what appeared to be a sea of employees (I was four and cute, so this was substantially more permissible than it probably would be now), who would entertain my zealous, self-imposed “Hellos!” with declarations like “Oh. This is Jan Vilim’s daughter.”

And I was proud. For a hefty chunk of my formative years, my mother was a single parent. She had a top tier education, a prestigious corporate career and a well manicured home in an upscale neighborhood on Long Island. Recently, she mentioned that, in those days, she wasn’t particularly interested in finding a partner or getting married because, as she noted, “I had my own house. I had my own job. I had my own car. I even…had my own kid.”

But was she fulfilled? Was she complete?

I don’t know; that isn’t for me to say, I guess. After my Stepfather entered the picture, though, things did become noticeably more peaceful for a time. At six, I was able to observe my mother having fun, being carefree. She seemed significantly more at ease, taking the time to travel, grappling with the idea of relocating to the West Coast, contemplating the addition of a second child to the family. During an argument that I witnessed between her and my Stepdad, though, I remember her storming into the living room — tense, overwrought, tear-stained – and declaring, “I made a big mistake here. I was doing fine on my own. I’m just not the type of woman who’s meant to be married.” She wore a reddish/pink scarf with small white polka dots tied in a knot at the side of her neck. My Stepfather, I worried, would soon be a goner. But I also wondered, “What type of woman is meant to be married?”

I graduated from college a year and a half early, attended law school in Boston, produced, reported and fought with fire to ward off the idea that I might actually be that sad little cliché of a girl. When I first started dating my fiancé, we’d already been friends for a number of years. During one of our earliest lunches at a small café uptown, I remember thinking I’m having so much fun. And instead of experiencing that intensely awkward, stomach churning, God-where-is-this-going-feeling that often coincides with first dates, I felt like I was spending quality time with the only person who has ever made me think that maybe being soft is being powerful.

My fiancé is meticulous in his cleanliness; I’m a walking disaster. He’s an intensely, painstakingly private person; I’m a notorious over-sharer who’s willing to spill my guts to anyone who will listen. He’s quiet (at first); I’m a chatterbox. He’s steadfast in his decision-making skills; I vacillate between options until I work myself into a panic attack. It’s not that we’re identical to one another — because we’re not. It’s that he is the somebody who gets my soul, and I’ve come to believe that a soul is a far more powerful and enduring thing than a pedigree could ever be.

 

 

 

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NoteBrooke Finally Found Girlfriend Jeans.

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Tag Heuer.

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Processed with VSCO with m6 preset

Dear NoteBrooke,

There’s a commonly held conviction in the field of clinical psychology (apparently) that alludes to the fact that human beings experience what’s called “childhood amnesia” by the time in which they reach the age of seven.

If you’ve ever wondered why you have no memory of what it was like to be a baby (The fact that I’m forced to recall the entirety of my adolescence — Velcro bangs, excessive self-loathing, and Long Island included — but that I don’t have any remembrance of being swaddled in pink cashmere and spoon fed applesauce while lounging in a crib for eighteen hours a day, feels like a sadistic personal tragedy to me), it’s probably because, like the greater portion of the adult population, you didn’t establish “accurate recollections” until the age of about three or four.

While I, too, find myself almost totally unable to recall the bulk of what transpired in my young life, somehow, there are a handful of moments that are so vivid, so poignant, that I could narrate them to you as if they occurred yesterday – and were photo-documented on Instagram, SnapChat, and the blog, to boot.

For example, on one of my first Christmases, I remember yearning for a pair of Twin Dolls – blue-eyed baby sisters that could be burped, brushed, and clothed like the real life younger sibling(s) that I didn’t yet have. But despite the fact that I woke up to a pristinely staged parade of gifts underneath my Christmas tree, I only recall the dread of peaking into the first box to discover — horribly, impossibly — that it didn’t contain EITHER of the two dolls that I’d been so frantically coveting.

How did Santa fail to receive the memo(s)?

As a toddler, catatonic in my own puddle of devastation, the truth is that I really just wanted what would eventually come to be known as my “big gift,” that one, supremely desirable item that I’d start dropping hints about somewhere in the dead of summer and then ruminate over until it showed up in a box underneath my Christmas tree on the twenty-fifth of December.

This year, I decided (in August) that I wanted to invest in a watch. After a couple of years of looking down at a frequently bare right wrist, it occurred to me that it was time to research a quality timepiece, one that could be worn on a day to day basis, elevating the entirety of my wardrobe and serving as the ultimate go-to staple.

Enter Tag Heuer (click!) — the renown Swiss watch brand that reintroduced their iconic “Link Lady Collection” this fall, thereby making the hmm-which-item-should-I-get-decision a total no brainer for me.

Because, check out the GEM (literally – hehehe!) on my right wrist. With a Mother-of-Pearl dial, and tiny, simple diamonds surrounding the face, this is the kind of minimalist piece that serves to compliment every last one of my looks. The stainless steel bracelet, in combination with hand-applied faceted indexes and a polished central seconds hand, was reason enough to sell me on the watch. But beyond the simplicity and the sophistication of the design alone, the fact that this baby is water resistant and that it contains scratchproof sapphire crystal, means that I can rock it not just here at home in New York, but on vacay, as well.

What’s your big gift this holiday season? Make it something that you’ll have forever. 😉

X,

B.

 

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