I am a summer baby. I was born in the dog days of August (in Mother Russia, where I’m pretty sure it’s still snowing, but still) in the Year of the Dragon (quick, nerds. How old am I?). I was literally created for warm weather. The way I feel about winter is most similar, perhaps, to the way I feel about my most recent hobby, Barry’s Boot Camp. As I sit comfortably at my desk, I eagerly anticipate Barry’s Boot Camp. I think about how fun it will be to do something different, and burn some much needed winter padding. I eagerly walk to Boot Camp after work, and, clad in matching neon sports bra and headband, excitedly enter the class, which I thoroughly enjoy for the first 10 minutes. For the 50 minutes that follow, I want to kill myself. My entire body aches. I don’t understand how my companions aren’t running out screaming for their lives but are actually smiling and enjoying the experience. I rue: myself, for coming to class, and the world, for insisting that women work out and be slender rather than melt into their couches and eat cheese. I leave Boot Camp on my deathbed and vow never to return again. Except, I bought a 10 class pass, and when the painful throbbing subsides (2-3 days), I foolishly sign up again.
This mentality is exactly how I approach winter. Every year without fail, I am excited for winter to come along. I can’t wait to layer, and wear tights (see: post in October in which I am foolishly excited about wearing tights), and see the lights at Rockefeller Center, and most importantly, get holiday presents. This childish anticipation lasts until several days into the new year. Once I realize there are no more presents to receive, I begin to despise winter. My skin is Bella Swan-white underneath those tights, and I’d rather kill a fox with my bare hands than have to put on my fur stole again. I count down the days and very seconds until winter will end and grumble to myself as I reach for warm, black pants, multitudes of layers, and my once-so-beloved booties morning after morning. I dream of silk sundress and denim cutoffs wistfully (coincidentally, about halfway through the summer I wonder why I ever wished this horror of sweat and scent upon Manhattan).
Luckily for me, I read a copious amount of fashion blogs, and although I can’t dress for winter quite yet, I can certainly shop for it. Inspired by Cheetah Is The New Black’s compilation of gorgeous spring pastel perfection, I decided to do me a little springtime browsing as well. I’m a girl whose wardrobe is broken down like so: 50% black, 25% white/grey/tan, and 25% colors I bought because they were on sale, I was drunk from brunch, or I had just returned from a sunny vacation, but these pastel-colored picks have me seriously reconsidering my stance on color:
1. Never would I ever wear these together. I am cold, not color blind.
2. That Tibi top is on its’ way to my closet from the depths of the internet world right now (The files are IN the computer?!). It was 80% off. How in the world could I not?
3. If you are my mother or boyfriend and seeking to purchase me something in the near future, I am considering bringing bagged lunch for the next month for that Alexander McQueen bangle. Pastel skulls? How pedophile-creepy-sexy-cool (but really will one of you buy it for me?)
4. The above sets were made on Polyvore. Has anyone ever used it? It’s like dressing up your paper doll, but instead of dresses from the 18th century, she gets to wear Isabel Marant booties and Celine bags. It is probably the most fun thing I’ve found on the internet in a few weeks, and I predict it having a 70-80% decrease on my productivity.
Off to online shop for bikinis and homes in Los Angeles!