Let me just put this right out there – I’m a major worrier.
In fact, I’m literally worried right now (irrationally, of course) about the possibility of forgetting how to string a sentence together and subsequently losing the ability to inject any measure of cadence and structure into my future posts. Sure, the prospect of “misplacing” an ability to write can only be likened to, say, forgetting how to sing; if you have a voice, chances are you’ll always have a voice, but try forcing fear to bite the dust by explaining to it its own senselessness and absurdity; that would be like treating mono with amoxicillin – it simply doesn’t work like that.
In my own defense, (and to taper the mounting judgments that you may be formulating about my self-professed neurosis), I should also note that the common triggers that ordinarily incite apprehension in people – you know, flying, heights, public speaking –for whatever reason, don’t cross my mind twice. When it comes to visiting a friend’s Manhattan condo and stepping out onto a sky-high balcony, for instance, I’m able to navigate my way to the edge in one fell swoop, snapping a mental picture of the city skyline like a quick polaroid and foregoing any thoughts of the cold concrete sidewalks situated below. “Brooke, step back,” people often warn, surprised at the brazenness with which I’ve glided towards the rail. And then, in the ultimate Julia Roberts rip off, I, on occasion, might even tip my body backwards just enough to incite a hair of horror into the onlooking Edward Lewis, if Edward Lewis were my girlfriend, standing there with a “You’re-totally-crazy-and-we’re late-let’s-go-look.”
This same irrational mix up of fears is symbolically projected through my wardrobe. When it comes to taking risks, I’m all about embracing the utterly bizarre. Mohair and spikes? Keep ‘em coming. With respect to the everyday, though, I experience major fashion panic at the thought of compiling a wardrobe of mistakes, one in which my choices of natural fibers and muted neutrals, are all somehow ill fitting, wrongly proportioned, or even just… blatantly underwhelming. In past seasons, I’ve at times fallen prey to trends that weren’t necessarily conducive to my body type, and then experienced pangs of guilt and frustration at the sight of all of the errors that had come to comprise my wardrobe.
For this reason, I always encourage women to become intimately acquainted with their go-to designers. A “go-to” designer should be one who consistently makes pieces that possess the fit, quality, versatility, and yes, comfort, that each of us, respectively, is really looking for when putting together an outfit. If forced to choose, (which, unfortunately I am), I’d much prefer to purchase two or three quality pieces per season, pieces that will make the rounds everywhere from work to weekend fetes with friends, than ten or twenty less costly mistakes. Go-to designers are not necessarily symbiotic with couture; they vary for all of us in accordance with considerations like aesthetic preference, fit, budget, etc. but once you find them, embrace them.
For me, Tibi is probably my number one go to, meaning that when I step foot into their Soho shop, I affirmatively know that I’ll strut – yes, strut – out with something that will instantly have the magic (The magic is like a man – it either has it or it doesn’t) and last forever. Whatever the piece is, it will inevitably hold a ubiquitous presence in my wardrobe, possessing the chops required to attend law school classes, wedding plan, globe trot, prance through the streets of New York, and quell my zany, irrational fears with one finely stitched piece of fabric at a time.