Back To....Well, Not School, But It's That Time Of The Year

 
It's been a while, hasn't it? I blinked a little too much into the sun and now it is September, New York Fashion Week came and went and I still refuse to transfer into fall. Mainly because that would mean that I would have to get working on my various deadlines (for those who haven't been counting along with me for the last three years, I am graduating fashion school this fall - man, I can still remember those exhausted, ice-cream-craving Gilmore-Girls-binging winter nights in freshman year when I literally had no work to do except showing up and feeling sorry for myself), but also because I love summer and feel like I haven't spent enough time outside showing off all the pairs of sandals I keep buying (four pairs of shoes in a month, a personal record I think).

I have a thing for dots at the moment, is what I'm trying to say

But alas, in a series of coincidences I have already aquired tons of fall-appropriate clothes, so that's something to look forward to! And my Gosh have I been living sustainability or what: I dug up smart jacket-and-pencil-skirt-sets and oversized cardigans from my mom (she has a magical closet, seeing how I seem to have only just discovered a whole decade of power-dressing in there that I never laid eyes on before), got gifted a series of leather skirts and Parisian silk as a hand-me-down from a whirlwind socialite who went a bit overboard with her shopping recently and I got beautiful, dark bordeaux-colored pumps a size too big for me so they don't kill my heels (each summer I forget to tape my feet before walking around the city for hours in tight strappy sandals and each summer I am astonished how many blisters you can get on top of each other). And if that wasn't enough to make all my fellow materialists go mmh with label-lust, please sit down for the approaching:

Prom-dress-shopping! 'tis a little early for me to fully indulge in that, considering that I should whip up some sort of creative wisdom to be graded on before I think about getting a certificate. But my oldest friend is shipping off to nine months in Cambridge in a week, and we had to get her equipped with some fancy European cocktail gowns. The one we found the other day has an absolute charming 20s vibe to it, and it is such a specific color that we had to lounge it around with us to hunt down some shoes, and it just so happened that we found a match so perfect that the employees cheered for us with tears in their eyes. One of them threw in an anectode about a well-known TV presenter whom he had "literally just sold a pair to", as if we needed any more convincing. Ah, the high of handing out your credit card in exchange for something so pretty. I've never felt this good after working out, certainly. Well, at least not due to the physical activity.

By the way, I dared to try something out of some random online mag article recently. The tip went a little like "to get close to him, just pretend to brush something of his face and lean in, then let your fingers linger a bit". Those writers surely never tried this while being excited about that person. Because if they had, they would know that you'd be too scared to actually touch his face - like, who does that, it's so unsanitary - and instead opt for his neck, and hesitate to get out the sentence, and then you don't linger smoothly with your hand on his shoulder but kinda draw circles with the tip of your finger, and when you say "you've got something there" he steps aside and says "no I don't", 'causing you to fall over (because you were leaning in like the stupid article told you to do) and very non-seductively grabbing onto his arm to keep from collapsing onto his feet. And then you realize that he is probably self-conscious about the little fuzz that he has on his neck and which he thinks is what you meant, not getting that you straight-up lied in order to awkwardly touch him. So you drop the plan and proceed to drum onto his (very hard, I should mention) stomach, and honestly I wouldn't vow on that being a turn-on, but then again what do I know, I tried brushing away fuzz. The moral of the story is, if you're in gym clothes, don't try to pull any moves, because it is very hard to get your message across if it is not a hundred percent obvious to the guy already.

Now go out and get some sun before we're snowed in again!

Love,

Rosy Smith