When I was a college student in Boston, my parents used to send me a designated stipend on the first day of every month. The money was projected to serve as an allowance of sorts, a “reserve cushion” (I still don’t understand what that term really means?!) that I was instructed to put towards basic necessities like food, books, groceries and public transportation.
Instead, whenever I’d check my account balance and realize that a direct deposit had been rendered (weee!!), without hesitation, I’d make a beeline to the Clé de Peau Beauté Counter at Saks.
While my initial obsession with the line existed in the form of the concealer stick, ultimately, that served only as a gateway drug — one which quickly got me addicted to brightening serums, fortifying emulsions and eye color quads, as well.
As a budding makeup junkie, Clé de Peau Beauté, with its Grade A, caviar-esque quality, made things easy; all of the products were ultra reliable and easy to use.
Ten years post my initial encounter with the line, my passion for Clé remains as obsessive and aggressive as ever. More recently, I added quite a few of their http://Radiant Liquid Rouges(click to see) to my repertoire of essentials. Offering the perfect amount of pigmentation, the colors work beautifully for both my on camera shoots (and, yes, for selfies, as well!) and on a day-to-day basis.
While I swear by numbers 11, 13, and 14 – because, who doesn’t appreciate a baby pink pout, a magenta mouth, and/or the perfect bubblegum blush, I’m actually much more enamored with the brilliance of the glosses than I am with anything else. As such, I’d happily try out all of the Radiant Liquid Rouges (in case anyone from the brand is interested in sending a few more my way!), because it’s not always easy to find a product that offers a long lasting, luxurious finish without feeling sticky or looking overly done.
Despite a couple of overdraft fees and the occasional hungry night, Clé de Peau Beauté played an enormous role in my personal evolution. In the words of Carrie Bradshaw, “When I first moved to New York and I was totally broke, sometimes I bought Vogue instead of dinner. I found it fed me more.”
The same is true of me with my must have cosmetics purchases, and the Clé de Peau Beauté Radiant Liquid Rouges are at the top of that list.
In the second floor spare bedroom of the house where I grew up, I finagle my way onto the top of one of my mother’s fragile antique dressers, assuming a cross-legged, Indian style position in front of the mirror that hangs at eye level before me. With heaps of mid day sunlight careening through the room’s two square shaped windows, I brace myself for what’s bound to be a grisly sight, a reflection that rivals only that of Quasimodo’s.
I’m fifteen years old and I despise myself. But what’s more is that I can’t wrap my head around the present state of my physical appearance. Making a no holds barred dermatological assessment of my face, I ask aloud, rhetorically, and as if it’s the single most baffling phenomenon in the universe, “What the fuck? I have the skin of a ninety year old woman.”
As an involuntary member of the pale skin/dark hair club, there’s a reason why I’m categorized as a prime candidate for laser hair removal. Not only do I detect traces of a male mustache developing across my upper lip, but my friend, Lindsey, points out the fact that I have an obvious unibrow emerging, as well. Pale skin, freckles, pimples and female facial hair just aren’t features that equate to constructive and/or particularly healthy encounters with the mirror.
With my sweet sixteen party only a couple of weeks away, I walk around with a plastic Ziploc bag that contains a couple of newly acquired cosmetic purchases — items that the saleswoman at my local Clinique counter suggested that I pick up for the event. A makeup virgin, I have little to no faith that the products will do much of anything, except perhaps, exacerbate the pre-existing flaws that I’ve already come to equate with my personal identity.
That said, something finally prompts me to give them a try, and I commence my first ever concealer application sitting there on top of the antique dresser with the sunlight illuminating my face.
Upon smoothing out the initial coat, I’m surprised to discover that I like the way that I look; so, with a heavier and more confident hand, I continue to apply more. And then, I go to town with the blush and the bronzer, as well. Using only these four products (at fifteen, I wasn’t permitted to wear much in the way of eye makeup – the idea wasn’t to transform me into a Shah of Sunset just yet), I arrive at the conclusion that, despite my rhetorical question to God and the universe about why I, alone, was cursed with the physical appearance of a Disney monster, I might only require the assistance of a Tweezer and a bottle of foundation to look good.
At fifteen, I’m genuinely awestruck by the idea that I could be pretty. Because, gone are the days of feeling even remotely comfortable in my own skin; they’ve been replaced with a lingering, low hanging cloud of generalized inadequacy that’s coupled with excessive self-loathing and paralyzing social anxiety. But here in the mirror, with this makeup on, I feel like the best version of myself.
Since that day, I’ve cultivated a great passion for the beauty industry as a whole. Throughout the past thirteen years, I’ve gone through hundreds of hours of “How-To” videos on YouTube, worked with some of the most coveted professionals in the business, watched my mug appear on national television (during my time as a reporter), and then transitioned into the blogosphere, which is another public forum where…I…post photos of myself on the internet for the world at large to see.
Having a reliable beauty routine enables me to feel like the best version of myself; I’m not ashamed to say that. When I look good, I feel good. Almost instantly, I find myself becoming more confident and upbeat.
I even carry myself differently.
And, I’ve come to realize that, in varying degrees, the same is true of most women. Who doesn’t enjoy feeling like the best version of herself?
But here’s the thing: despite what I’ve learned about investing in my exterior shell, it is, in fact, just that – a shell. No amount of contouring or beach waving or spray tanning could ultimately teach me how to love myself. That’s a topic for another post. Still, a major part of the reason why I chose to start a blog is because I’ve seen, firsthand, the power that a couple of products – from a Clinique counter at a mall on Long Island, to boot – could have in changing the way that I walk through life.
It’s a relatively ordinary, if not blatantly mundane, late summer afternoon when I return home to my apartment and note the familiar ding of a new email that made its way into my inbox. It’s from my manager, and it states the following:
Hey Brooke, Great news: Longchamp and Vogue would love to move forward with you.
My hearts immediately starts break dancing in my chest, and I get the good buzz feels while reading the sentence over and over again to ensure that this is really happening. Because, when I launched NoteBrooke, I spent the first six months of the initiative fastidiously applying for “grown up” jobs. This was never something that I believed would lend itself to collaborating with any brands, let alone iconic French leather luxury lines like Longchamp
…in connection with Vogue.
When I get to the New York showroom to take a glimpse at some of the pulls for my upcoming Central Park based shoot (I know), I’m floored by all of the designs that Longchamp has to offer. Casually insinuating — wink wink — that I’d love to wear a few of the looks to New York Fashion Week, I’m immediately awestruck by the richness of the colors, the top-notch quality of the plush fabrics and the flattering fits of the pieces that I get to try on.
Like every other human being in the civilized world, I was already familiar with Longchamp’s cute bags (What else would a regular Elle Woods use to carry her books in?) and lux accessories, and I regularly passed their pristinely manicured storefronts on Newbury Street in Boston and on Madison Avenue in New York, but I wasn’t nearly as savvy about their super chic repertoire of Fall wonders.
The shoot takes place in several dreamy locations throughout Central Park, and I’m working alongside two of my good friends — Charlotte, from the Fashion Guitar, and Krystal, from This Time Tomorrow. We’re provided with a link to Longchamp’s Fall 2016 campaign video in advance, which, if you’re looking to be inspired, is right here for your viewing pleasure, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XMC6Zhzerw (!)
With the help of a chic little pedicab that takes us from location to location, we cruise around Central Park draped in individualized threads from the line, three peas in a Bethesda Terrace based pod. Naturally [hair flip, finger snap], I represent “fire,” per the campaign, so my outfit includes blazing shades of orange/red interspersed with deep chocolate browns.
In the midst of New York Fashion Week, hopping around Central Park with such an incredible team, is a welcome respite from the madness. Longchamp is a sophisticated, but still very wearable brand, and the shoot has me feeling as if I’ve escaped from New York City altogether and teleported to a town full of grand castles somewhere outside of a major metropolitan area in Europe. Think French Countryside circa 1775 vibes but with incredibly inspiring outfits thrown into the mix.
Fire + amazing brand + pedicab transportation + good friends + celebratory lunch at the Central Park Boat House = the best career choice of my life.
I initially became aware of the fact that the airport experience, as it relates to fashion, is relatively indistinguishable from the one in which street style gurus clamor for sidewalk space outside of the most coveted (and photographed!) runway shows when I spotted a picture of Victoria Beckham waltzing through Heathrow in a pair of sky-high Louboutins and reflective glass aviators. Immediately at her side, like a small, chic football team (pun intended!!), were her equally posh (pun intended!!) looking children — Harper stealing the show in a Burberry dress and a matching pink hair bow.
When Chiara, Negin, and Olivia post photos of themselves perched atop roll-along Louis Vuitton suitcases, looking fresh faced and beautiful, one might reasonably assume that each girl is headed straight down to the beach rather than directly into what promises to be a germ infested, claustrophobic, twenty-one hour nightmare.
But here’s the thing: I, too, spend a fairly exorbitant amount of time boarding flights for a living. Since there are a whole host of pre-existing horrors dedicated solely to the experience of simply being in an airport, it’s especially important to ensure that I’m travelling in an efficient, stylish and streamlined way; that’s the one aspect of the situation that I actually can control.
And so, when I discovered Lipault Paris, I made a direct beeline towards their products. Since commencing my gypsy based life smack-dab in the center of LaGuardia, I’ve become cognizant of the fact that a substantial deficit exists in the way of finding chic and affordable travel pieces. More often than not, I watch the same mid-size, black canvas bags work their way around the conveyor belt, shouting things like “Each of use are just as drab and depressing as the next – instant outfit ruiners, for sure!” and “We’re all the same color, shape and size; just put us out of our misery already!”
Listen — it suffices to say that the majority of modern day fashionistas don’t have a particularly compelling interest in pulling out all of the stops to dedicate five hours of hair and makeup — and the potential threat of a broken ankle — to becoming Victoria Beckham prior to boarding transatlantic flights. But who doesn’t want to feel put together and organized when commencing a trip, knowing that their cute outfits and must-have products are neatly stowed away in style?
Lipault Paris is all about rich colors, textures, and — WAIT FOR IT — affordability. Created in Paris about a decade ago (Anything French – #obviously, #getonit, #nobraineranyway), the bags are basically the inedible equivalent of those delish macaroons that we like to photograph (and consume) all day long. In slowly commencing the process of planning for my honeymoon, I’ve already decided that I want one of the bags in every color — I won’t pack in anything else nowadays.
To see what it is that I’m so fervently raving about, visit http://www.lipault-usa.com.
Here’s the thing about my skincare regimen: for the greater portion of my adult life, it ceased to exist.
Unless you factor in that one plastic hand soap dispenser with the white pump top that I’d press down on each night to retrieve a small sampling of an emulsion that was more conducive to sterilizing dirty dishes than it was to removing makeup from — human flesh — then it would be accurate to assert that I’ve spent far too many years willfully neglecting my pores.
But before you start drawing parallels between me and 2007 Britney – you know, the one who proudly noted that she often slept in her makeup for several consecutive nights in order to avoid the inevitability of having to go through the reapplication process in the AM – let me just remind you of the maddening (and ubiquitous) skincare introductory scenario that the majority of women experience.
If you’ve ever visited a cosmetics counter, then you’ve probably already had the displeasure of listening to a sales pitch that resulted in the confused purchase of seven “completely necessary” and “highly effective” serums.
And although your newly acquired high brow potions are mixed with bizarrely named ingredients that you can’t even begin to pronounce, but that your over zealous associate tosses around as though they’re every day adjectives (“And this one is infused with lavender julep mint tea extract (!) excavated from the single most plush rainforest (!) in Sri Lanka”) – they’re just never going to provide that instantaneous Karlie Kloss complexion that you were so steadfastly guaranteed.
As I’ve gotten older and learned to veer away from things like dish soap and Bounty paper towels when it comes to washing my face, I’ve accepted the fact that skincare is, in fact, extremely important. It turns out that dermatologists really do seem to know what they’re talking about. And, with my wedding date quickly approaching, I’m especially particular about what I get into the habit of putting on my pores.
While I think it’s safe to say that most aspects of my life are relatively high maintenance require a lot of time and the occasional indulgence, skin care just isn’t one of them. With a trifecta of mini bottles that keep me clear and glowy (And I mean, what more could I really ask for out of life, anyway?), this is one thing that I can be very pragmatic about.
It’s 8pm on a Friday night, and I’m jonesing to make a smooth escape from the cubicle where I’ve spent the entirety of my workweek, flexing and unfurling my lower limbs in the same manner that a meth addict does when she’s patently itching for a stockpile of smack.
At 8:o7pm, exactly, my boss retrieves his briefcase and careens through the secure glass doors that divide us – the newsroom: a small, if not eclectic, group of producers, reporters, and tech gurus – from the city that’s unleashing its rush hour based rigor twenty stories below.
As the resident underachiever of the group, it’s inherently understood that I’ll be the first to leave for the night. Despite the fact that the minimum base fare of an Uber ‘X’ has surged to something that equates to what a substantial percentage of Americans — outside of the New York major metropolitan area — pay in property taxes, I make a heated beeline to the nearest black car and enjoy a cushy ride back to my apartment on the East Side.
There’s a theory that’s not often discussed – probably because it exists solely within the recesses of my own mind – that suggests that nobody in New York, with the exception of parents and/or a small fraction of the resident elderly population, puts forth a particularly compelling effort to establish any semblance of a robust savings account.
I’m producing content for MSNBC, and for a long while, I’m completely enamored with the act of being part of the largest media market in North America; at twenty-five years old, I’m fulfilling my dream of playing in the the majors. But unsurprisingly, the days are arduous and exhaustive and my shoots can be as physically taxing as they are emotionally jarring. As such, I quickly realize that I’m willing to forego things like heat and electricity in exchange for espresso laden venti iced coffees and a few extra minutes of sleep propagated by the aid of a bi-daily Uber ride.
By 9:15 pm, Caroline, my best friend, arrives at my doorstep. Fresh off the heels of what appears to be a grueling therapy session, I immediately detect familiar shadows of my own demeanor in her overwrought, tense expression. Together, we meander onto the small, concrete terrace that’s directly outside of my bedroom window, and with a blue bottle of cheap Moscato in tote, commence a candid dialogue about the fact that we’re both terrified of everything.
Caroline is a true genius – not the obnoxious kind who consistently mentions “Harvard this, Harvard that” — but the kind whose passions and predilections are so genuinely out of sync with her physical appearance that she herself becomes an object of fascination to the world at large.
Sitting on the 2×4 slab of concrete that is my terrace, with the New York skyline standing prostrate in front of us, as if to ask, aggressively, acerbically, “Oh, you thought this would be easy?” we resemble two characters in the center of an utterly tragic Lana Del Ray video. Beneath the full moon, we’re lounging on the floor, sipping white carbonated wine and obsessing over the idea that all of our worst fears could so easily come to fruition, obliterating our pre-constructed life plans and rendering us perpetually alone and wholly unfulfilled.
We talk about our careers and wonder if we’ll end up intellectually underwhelmed and eternally destitute. And what about our relationship statuses? Tonight, I’ve successfully managed to convince myself that my boyfriend, the love of my adult life (and my now fiancé), will disappear into oblivion via a Joe Jonas like breakup text. Failing to find a partner to spend forever with seems like a tragedy of sorts, but I make absolutely certain to remind myself of the fact that it’ll be ten times more horrific to finally feel something this poignant and then to watch it all slip away.
We take turns analyzing the potential root causes of our wide spanning list of anxieties and try to decipher what our respective purposes on the planet ought to be. It’s a lot to tackle for two young girls on a Friday night, especially while readying ourselves to go downtown for an evening of…fun. But with each free floating anxiety that we ruminate over, ultimately, we end up laughing so voraciously at our own melodramatic musings that I literally have to beg Caroline to “shut up!” because eyeliner is now dripping off of my face, and, per usual, we’re running late. I grab her metallic gold YSL tribute heels and she pulls an outfit from somewhere in my closet. We leave.
Truth be told, some of our fears are entirely valid: they’re far more deeply rooted than the surface level stuff that we’re touching upon in conversation. Caroline knows my darkest demons. But she’s also aware of the fact that my rational side, the one that allows me to function on a day day to basis, is still firmly in tact, and that while a bout of situational anxiety might’ve reared its icky, foundation free face for a moment, it’s actually unbelievably cathartic for both of us to let it out.
I understand certain things about Caroline, as well. I recognize what people consistently expecther to be – a leggy blonde girl with Kennedy-esque Massachusetts based roots and messy hair that always falls perfectly into place (proverbial eye roll, ensue). Both of us are well aware of the fact that lots of people don’t have particularly kind things to say about us, but we’ve stopped caring about baseless assumptions and personal insults. There’s no time for that anymore. New York feels like a microcosm of social darwinism at play, and we’re primarily focused on surviving in the new maze that’s become our adult lives. While I recognize that Cara is decidedly a well coiffed glamor puss and a ridiculously talented stylist to some of the greatest talents of our time, to boot, I also know that she’s a scientifically and mathematically driven engineer before she is anything else, that she n-e-v-e-r utters a negative word about anyone (a seemingly impossible feat that I’m working on being able to lay claim to myself), and that, regardless of any of her fears, she’ll always be OK.
I project onto her life a mirror of sorts, a luminous window into a complex mind and an old soul. She, in turn, does the same for me.
And now, a couple of years into our respective journeys in New York, when we worry, we don’t run towards the darkest parts of our psyches, but instead, we go out into the city, the one that’s shown us how resilient we really are, and if nothing else, we’re finally free.
I’ve legitimately spent the past seven to nine months doing nothing more than attempting to protect my little limbs from the onset of intensive frostbite during outdoor shoots. Admittedly, I’ve given far too much extra attention to all things leather, cashmere, and cushy in the name of relative warmth. BUT, with the onset of spring/summer (praise God!)! finally approaching here in NYC, I’ve recently put a great deal of obsessive thought into creating a look that’s as fun and simplistic as it is cost effective.
Of late, I’ve been on a manic hunt for the must haves — great fits, rich color options, and affordable pieces, which is how/why I came to discover the g-e-n-i-u-s that is XOXO. Incredibly fresh and original, XOXO offers up lots of magical goodies that can’t be found/duplicated/ripped off in every other major department store either. After rocking my pale blue booties, cold shoulder top (which is decidedly the best name for a shirt ever) and hello-yellow romper for the past week or so, it suffices to say this line, as a whole, is essentially giving me life, and I’ll be sporting it all summer long. 😉 See for yourself at XOXO.com
[I’ve partnered with Corcoran to tell the story of what inspires me about the process of creating a New York City based home. For further creative goodies, be sure to visit their brand new blog at inhabit.corcoran.com -xx, B]
When I was a child, I spent a considerable amount of time architecting what my ensuing move to the Big Apple would look like.
Clad in dark leather pants, a fitted blazer, and a red/blue/forest green plaid scarf (Yes, my meticulous attention to detail was presumably the first indication of the chronic bout of all-consuming OCD that was still yet to surface), I’d swoop into town with a repertoire of only the most coveted essentials — the kinds of things that organically fell within the purview of the entirely attainable and the universally fundamental…for a seven year old with her head in the clouds, or like, Ken Vanderpump.
In addition to a newly acquired editorial position at Conde Nast and a well organized haute couture wardrobe, surely I’d manage to scoop up a killer pad with a view of the Park and a walk in closet that starkly resembled Carrie Bradshaw’s sprawling oasis amidst the clouds – you know, the one with the customized white cabinetry that was gifted to her from Big in an apparent effort to underscore his understanding of her passion for electric blue Manolos as a fundamental component of intellectualized personal expression.
But what I actually encountered when I arrived to New York were the remnants of a bad breakup and an egregiously constructed attempt at adulthood. Fresh off the heels of a cancelled engagement, I found myself unemployed and homeless in the literal center of a pile of bulging white trash bags that had come to comprise my “life” (or whatever remained of it) as a bonafide Manhattanite.
Um…somebody call Corcoran?
Without a plan, a job, or an apartment, I launched headfirst into the process of creating some semblance of a reasonably operative day-to-day existence. But despite landing a pseudo well-paying gig as a celebrity personal assistant, finding my soulmate (!) and slipping into a bustling downtown social scene, I found myself aching (Literally. Think wholly incapacitating stress induced tummy pains) — for a place to call home.
In a city that never sleeps, it feels all the more imperative to find a peaceful little box in the sky (or even just a few stories up!) where one can retreat beneath her comforter and shut the literal/proverbial door upon the surrounding labyrinth of madness that’s sure to be ensuing atop the crowded, noisy, and air polluted city sidewalks below.
A longtime fan of the Corcoran Group, I quickly came to appreciate the fact that despite my childhood predilection for parquet floored penthouses and limestone constructed skyscrapers, my broker was equally enthusiastic about the prospect of helping me to find an apartment that fit both my budget and my individual list of must haves. A good view? Check. Hard wood floors? Yep. Closet space? Praise Jesus!
Within less than a month, a brand new mattress was laid down on my bedroom floor – which, by the way, is the first step to any successful move. Slowly, I breathed in the fresh scent of my newly acquired home (If I could somehow bottle that fragrance and sell it as a Dyptique Candle, I would) in the same way that a particularly devout yogi might inhale during the pinnacle moment of her morning transcendental meditation.
In my quest to find a perfectly personalized Brooke nook (potential URL name for an interior design blog?!) somewhere amongst the endless barrage of sirens, I discovered all of the requisite touches that made my urban apartment feel like a South Floridian beachfront oasis to me.
And although I ultimately moved in with my fiancé upon getting engaged last September – two years post my initial arrival to New York — I still maintain that all I really to need to feel comfortable in my living space is a couple of personalized touches and a view of the city that surrounds me. Everything else is extra.
My fiancé and I have now managed to create our very own home together, one that houses (hehe) tons of special memories and all of the creature comforts that we both covet, respectively. That said, my initial move to the city is decidedly the one that prompted me to reflect upon the importance of turning a house or an apartment into something significantly more than just that alone.
Head to Corcoran.com to check out the launch of their new blog. It contains some pretty spectacular imagery and inspo 😉
Deliberate avoidance of a visit to the ATM out of fear that one’s bank balance has become so irreparably attenuated via overdraft fees – those pesky, dirty little dings that are inflicted upon us each time that we swipe our thin plastic life lines through the requisite Bergdorf/Starbucks/Duane Reade (I’m just naming the essentials here) credit card machines long after they’ve been sufficiently maxed out –- is a tactic that’s as effective in amassing some semblance of a savings account as is my ability to avoid bum rushing all of the kitchen cabinetry the moment that my fiancé cavalierly asserts that he ordered up a jumbo jar of Nutella from Fresh Direct earlier that afternoon.
I’ve learned, more aggressively than most, perhaps, that denial only begets a slew of egregiously misguided life choices — those that eventually, invariably, render one physically and emotionally displaced upon a coarsely carpeted, sickly colored hotel room floor while commencing a manic search for a place to call home and clutching a newly ascertained rendition of the King James Bible. This is, of course, a brief allusion to the disastrous conclusion of my previous relationship and to the abrupt/urgent move to New York City that ensued immediately thereafter.
In more extreme instances, it can also catalyze undercover jaunts to markedly unsavory destinations across the globe, those that are generally presupposed to house a slew of sticky, heat saturated Central American brothels in their tropical custodies — the types of establishments that smell of thick, low hanging cigarette smoke and that cater to a predominantly pale-skinned, fair-haired customer base of gringo pedophiliacs looking to fulfill their criminal perversions behind the semi opaque veil of extreme third world poverty.
If you’re immersed in a culture that propagates a consistent barrage of stringent generalizations regarding the female identity, then you’ll soon realize that most of us are allotted just enough room to be catalogued as either a Kim Kardashian or a Kate Middleton, an ideology that subliminally disseminates polarizing extremes and virgin/whore complexes aplenty.
So if it means disproving widespread, preordained notions that draw staunch parallels between fashion savvy, fresh faced young females and vapid, vacuous superficiality – you know, the especially icky kind that lends itself to labels like spoiled rich girl, airhead, gold digger, frivolous, self-absorbed, pathetic, disposable – (Because, I’m quite certain that I’ve been assigned all of those titles at one time or another), then you, too, might engage in your own game of Russian Roulette, disappearing into the previously mentioned Central American Red Light District with nothing more than a poorly concealed Go Pro camera and bits of badly broken Spanglish under your belt.
You’d be on a no holds barred mission, after all – not only to unearth the complexities of the story at hand, but maybe, in some way, to produce (pun intended) your personal truth, as well.
Which is all to say, that I’ve spent the greater portion of my twenties making a lot of wildly erroneous life choices in an internal quest to seek some measure of external public credence. I’ve pursued more than one misguided career trajectory, including, as much as I hate to say it – journalism. Here’s the thing: although I l-i-v-e-d for the actual act of producing worthwhile, worthy content — the kind of stuff that I’d be willing to sleep in grimy, bug ridden motels sequestered between hidden hills in desolate and dangerous foreign lands for — I didn’t want to be Lisa Ling if it meant that I couldn’t be Miroslava Duma, as well.
Because, why should a penchant for contoured cheekbones and swoon worthy street style outweigh my requisite intent to hop on a plane and to risk my right to things like – well, habeas corpus, for instance, in the name of storytelling?
Tell me: in 2016, why do static characters and predilections regarding the female gender continue to penetrate and permeate our society? What if you could see who I really am?
I wonder what you’d think; I wonder how differently I’d feel in my own skin.
If presented with the opportunity to fast forward through my youth by a few decades and to slip right into a South Floridian retirement community instead, I would take that deal in about seven seconds or less.
Born and raised in the Tristate Area, I’ve become all too accustomed to elongated spasms of snow/hail/sleet/frostbite/tears/et. al. And so, despite my penchant for eighty-two degree days and the occasional beach wave, I’ve compiled a wardrobe that’s decidedly more conducive to ensuring that my limbs remain in tact than to begging the [rhetorical] question:
“Don’t I just look so summertime chic right now?!”
It stands to reason, then, that whenever springtime (finally) does roll around, I consistently experience a recurring bout of fashion panic, racking my brain for stylistic options that seem as fresh and unique as the balmy spring days that have eclipsed my six month stint in semi-reclusive hibernation.
When I first found M.Gemi, the shoe line that birthed these bad girls (!), I was uber surprised and pleasantly taken aback. Because, come May, I often find that I’m wholly disenchanted by the cookie cutter-esque options that are strewn across the shelves of every major department store in New York City. Do I really want to opt for another pair of Jesus style lace up sandals and/or ballet flats that aren’t actually flattering on anyone other than Olivia Palermo?
M.Gemi is the first line that I’ve found that offers absurdly cute and cost effective sandals, pumps, flats, booties and sneakers. In styling an outfit, or building a wardrobe that one loves, I always suggest starting with the right pair of shoes and building upward from there to create a silhouette, color scheme, and vibe that lends itself to the themes of chic and unique. Upon scouring the M.Gemi website, I quickly found that they essentially do the work for you insofar as creating options that are instant outfit completers, especially in the way of street style.
Everyone loves a colorful espadrille, a seasonlesss pointed toe flat, and a tastefully done lace up bootie that instantly elevates a wardrobe by way of texture, fit and individuality. And thus, it’s safe to say that I’ll be rocking A LOT of M.Gemi when it decides to stop freezing rain and being grey here in New York City.