Lovelies, hold your Cosmos and have a sip, 'cause it finally happened: I got to take my diploma and a rose and turn my back on fashion school! Anyone who's been here since 2015 has heard me moan, gossip and exaggerate about it for so long, they probably feel like they went there, too. But sometimes even I had something nice to say about it all, as I do tonight:

There was a nostalgic "through-the-years"-power point presentation and I'm a sucker for that. Sure, the pictures of the first and last days of school were simply horrifying, but there was a clip of me being editor of a project and scribbling away into my notebook, wearing a green pinafore dress and feeling très important, and I think I went "aww" pretty audibly (audible? Language's caving in on me already).

Also, who cares about those dumb old photos, I got great hair now. And by that I literally mean now, since I've only had it for half a week - college made my hair fall out (at least that's one of my top five theories, allergic reaction to artsy neon light), so to mark this new glorious chapter of my life, I blew on all supplements, lentil stews and head massages and got tape extensions. I'm touching my head every five minutes to check if they're still there and not peaking through like in the nightmare I had the night before I got them done, but I'm irrevocably hooked on them. Everyone at graduation went "Oh my GOD your HAIR" and tucked at the strands; it's very sweet how much they emphasize.



Some of us were so hyped we didn't want to leave yet, after all canapés were munched up and the fizzy wine called for real food, so we relocated to the one restaurant that took us in (spontanously needing a table for ten on a friday night in the city isn't the brightest idea, but we're not known for our thorough planning anyways) and I had baked mozarella - a homage to my Hamburg days and the fact that I a) can't cook and b) have questionable food cravings.



Anyways, I posted some pictures to show the fitness guy what an amazing weekend I'm having, or rather, how amazing my hair looks. That's the main purpose here as well, actually, so did you take a good look?

I'll stop being this obnoxious sooner or later, I think. Maybe.

Love,

Rosy Smith

 
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

I sure did! No worries, I'm still here, back at school, physically unharmed except for the big scratch on my underarm that my cat gave me - love hurts, lovelies.

So what's going on? The semester started a month ago but, as always, I didn't do nothin' to get my projects started until this morning. It's tradition. This is the final stretch, and it comes in the form of me creating a literary magazine. Why yes, three years of fashion have sure ruled out that topic for me. I'm all for this, actually, creating my own vision and ladidaa. Let's just hope that "I work best under
pressure" line works out once again, shall we?

I'm being a good girl and going to the gym. Not to work out, God forbid, but I'm taking classes like I did in Hamburg, stretching and stuff. Using the steam room, drinking protein shakes at the bar with my oldest friend and flirting with the young instructor - isn't that what gym life is all about? And it gives me something to do in the evenings when I'd usually just come home from college and cry about the fact that the day is already over. Which brings me to the next point:

Keepin' busy is key to survive senior year in style. I'm dead tired every single day, but it's the good kind of tired, which is not owed to working too much (I know, that is probably a bad thing given the deadlines) but to having too much fun things to do at night.

That sounds so wrong. Let me give you an example, I went to that yearly birthday party (I guess they're all yearly, but whatever) this weekend, and this time, I didn't meet any creepy guys, but I had a heart to heart with the host who is most definitely the sweetest thing alive. He's just come back from traveling to all kinds of crazy places and now he's producing his own music. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out if I should wear a fringe (I'm leaning towards no, by the way)

All by myself....we ain't big on attendance

 What I'm saying is, I found that I get less cry baby-ish over my stupid commute (we can actually almost count down the days as far as that's concerned - only three more months!) if I gotta rush to the next event that same day, be it drinks in the city or a nice night of catching up with my bestest friend. She's got a boyfriend now, and he seems to be absolutely adoring, which I like to hear about, because it makes me very happy (so he better watch out and keeps it this way, 'cause I hate disappointment).

Writing and working and writing some more - that's what I want to do, all the time, because the doom of going out into the world and having to get a job and buying my own pasta and learning about laundry detergent is hovering upon me, and these are the only things I know to get prepared. Oh, and a good manicure paired with Rouge Dior. That never fails to help.

Good to be back.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I went on a little European adventure to visit my loveliest friend abroad, and I fell in love with Italy all over again (the first time I did was in 2016 when us two summered in the most adorable town by the sea and got us our very own gang with a quaint but nice neighbour)....

It's not always hot. In fact, the first thing I saw getting off the plane was the snowflakes falling down at crazy speed. Good thing I traveled in the fuzziest clothes I own, my black fake fur and a long wool skirt that made me look like one of the Olsen twins in their homeless-chic phase, but more on the homeless side (is that politically incorrect or a fashion term or both?).

There's always coffee. It's cheap. And it's good. I didn't even need caramel flavored syrup and chocolate infusions to get it down, like I usually would at home. Since the weather wasn't exactly the sunniest and we were more interested in catching up than standing in line for the duomo (it's very pretty from the outside, too) anyways, we made stops for coffee at least twice a day, which could last a couple hours. However, I feel like that's one of the best ways to get familiar with the country; watching people and the city going by and listening to other guests' conversations (even though my Italian is basically at level zero).

Sightseeing means strolling around high fashion stores all day long. The buildings are beautifully built and the clothes are gracefully presented and everyone crossing your way is carrying a well-known purse. Exactly my kind of vacation. Even the corner newsstand hands you a black shopping bag that could easily mean you've been shopping something way more expensive than the latest Vogue. Your crepe literally comes on a golden plate. I wonder what the trashbags look like.


The Lago di Como is a happy place where nothing bad can find you. We followed the weather forecast and took the train (the wrong one, forcing us to freeze on the platform in some village and put on a harmonizing performance of our childhood jams in order to keep warm, probably disturbing everyone else for life), and suddenly, it was 60 degrees instead of 30 and we were wearing sunglasses while drinking our coffee on a sunny piazza. I bought a red bag and red heels (in a store that was probably the Italian equivalent of Target, but still, it's Italian after all) and my loveliest friend got some gorgeous boots and equipped with our new belongings, we climbed up into the mountains (to board a train up to a mansion. Never found the train, almost suffered a heatstroke from unplanned exercise. But the view was awesome). We got ice cream that tasted like the strawberrys were handpicked that same day (a garbage collector came up to me when I was done and said something I obviously didn't understand; I thought he was mad at me for setting my empty cup down and tried to form a sentence swearing that I'd throw it away, but in the end he just took it from me and we left). And we walked all around the lake and watched the sun set over it and the swans swimming and stumbled upon romantic corners and scenic balconies every five steps.


Trains fail you like they do anywhere else, but in Italian. I was already calculating my ride to the airport closely, and when I rushed up to the platform, people were just shaking their heads at me when I asked "Airport?" with wide fear-struck eyes. Cancellato, said the sign, and no official was around to be found and none of the announcements were in English, so I kind of gave in and made my peace with missing my flight and staying another night (it's not the worst to be held up in Milan, is it?). Made it though, with a full ten minutes to spare (and feeling absolutely disgusting in my not-made-for-running-outfit).

I hope your March started off full of dolce della vita. Let's see how the rest of it goes....

Love,

Rosy Smith

Now the whole autumn/orange/temperature-irritation madness is finally over, we can proceed to ignore that there is a whole other month before December and just pass the time pretending it's already appropriate to start piling up the wishes. In fact, it is for me, as it is gonna be my birthday in three weeks and four days - which brings us to the first poi
nt....

A vintagy dress to turn 21 in. As you may know, I take joy in making an absolute fuss out of my birthday, and I almost always buy myself a new dress for it way in advance. I'm pretty late with this year's choice though and just ordered it today. I think it's being shipped off from China (I scouted out this website named rosegal.com because they have loads of vintage inspired stuff and that's the theme I'm going for. I kind of see myself in a hazy cocktail bar with low chairs, looking up from my drink in my petticoat dress with dark eyes and fair skin. I may be also seeing myself in a black and white movie), so fingers crossed it will arrive in time for me to take it home (that's where I'm going for that weekend. I want to meet up with my loveliest friends in said hazy bar and roll our stockings down or something).

A small but kinda medium tote bag but square with a handle but also a strap to wear it crossbody. It's hard to describe, but it has to be that way. I don't even know where that need comes from, because it is a well-known fact that I'm a shoe and not a bag person, but I genuinely do not own anything similar (not sure if anyone does) and I think the last bag I got is from 2015, when I first went to college. So it's not like I'm being totally arbitrary here. We have one at the office by Karl Lagerfeld that I fancy, in pomegranate, which sounds so yummy that I feel obliged to want it. Speaking of red....

All Those Parcels, Nothing For Me

Red velours gloves. These ones I actually saw at &otherstories and they just got that Cruella De Ville vibe to them (without the puppy murdering part) that I think suits me. The longer I think about it, the more I want them. And it is getting pretty freaking cold pretty freaking quickly up here, too, so we're talking necessities and practicalness and stuff here.

Clear make-Up storage thingies. And kitchen storage mug thingies. And coasters, for God's sake. I've been left alone in the homeware section of a lifestyle store for way too long. Gotta keep in mind that I am in fact returning to live at home again for at least another year and won't need my own quiche casseroles. I don't even like quiche (but maybe I could buy some for someone for Christmas?)

Clear skin. It is the rule that when you come home visiting from another place where you're supposed to liven' it up on your own, you have got to look nothing less but stunning. It is also the rule that when you live alone, you (I) tend to eat all the bad (but how can it be bad if it feels so good?) stuff all of the time, so these two are a bit counteracting. My loveliest friend texted me lots of product recommendations this morning and I'm still trying to figure out what to put on when. It's like while some people are slow with reading, I am slow with skincare. I'm astoundingly lost. My usual regime is to buy random stuff I stop using after a week until I have a bad phase and buy something else.

As for last but not least, it is a secret, but I sincerely wish for it more than for everything I've mentioned, so root for me, pretty ple
ase. I'll be rooting for you, too.

Love,

Rosy Smith

A bit of a general mess

First of all, we're boycotting Halloween this year. Don't ask.

The second month of my internship is over and I barely managed to memorize which cost center number to use when, so I'm thinking about using different names when asked so it doesn't get too embarrassing. What I do know is how to tape a parcel together that is falling apart when you blow at it ('cause we reuse them until they start to recycle themselves) so that it still makes it to its destination. I'm also good at making prs feel like I'm considering their client called "Thunder From Down Under" (I couldn't think of a similar rhyme so I guess name's are not changed for the sake of anyone's privacy. Too bad.) which may or may not be a male strip company, for a feature when I'm

a) working in the fashion department, so guys whose thing it is to literally take off their clothes aren't the most relevant topic, and b) really not in a position to decide this, but will probably write a note to someone who won't remember to read it and there's that. It's a cruel world out there.

I have rewarded myself  - I have the ever-present need to do that, because I'm "working" nine hours a day. Which might make sense with a real job but is not the healthiest attitude when you're not being paid. Ignoring that, I got myself some home bits (including a cake stand because I might decide to serve afternoon tea someday) and some clothing bits (including a pair of baby blue velvet sandals because sometimes you just gotta have some) and a huge frozen yoghurt that I ate in a café by myself (because yes, please). Money might not buy happiness, but it does alright for a pleasant afternoon, doesn't it?


I started a gym membership and before you lose your faith, I'm not working out in a classic sense. I'm going to dance classes, and there's so many to choose from: Ballet, Zumba, Bellydance - I'm taking everything that has good music and some nice stretching. See, I think that my body is only able to excercise to music because it doesn't realize it's doing something exhausting then. Cause I went to Pilates once, almost fainted from muscle burn and couldn't think about anything else because the music was this hushed panpipe peeping I barely noticed over my brain going "why does standing on my leg hurt so badly? Don't I always do that?". So yeah. Dancing it is.


I got a couple of visitors annoucing themselves for November so I'm very excited to play the gracious hostess once more - just hoping for nice weather, because this weekend saw the second big storm since I've arrived and it's hard to really roam the city against a breeze of 30 mph.

Fingers crossed.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Face Mapping. So, according to this, I'm stressed, my digestive system is all wrong, I'm either dehydrated or an alcoholic and definitely stuffing my face with greasy food. The latter might be true as I have developed an obsession with mini mozarella balls, but stressed? Okay, I'm not used to being in an office all day long, but whenever there's not much to do for me, I'm free to browse fashion-related websites for face mapping advice and call it research. That's the life, right?
 
Speaking of websites, I just read that cords are back in style on the-pool.com. I think I'm scared. Having had to wear cord pants since childhood, I've only recently (probably about ten years ago, though. I'm old.) escaped the order to wear them to "keep warm" and got to deliberately enjoy myself getting cold in my nylons. Cords make me feel boyish (when I was little I sometimes wore hand-me-downs from my older brother. Also, in the nineties, pants were not meant to have a shape. Whoever put shapeless pants on the runway - why, oh why?) and warm (duh, they served their purpose alright. But in school, we had a thing called heating. Well, most of the time) and slightly childish later on when all the cool kids started wearing jeans. Nowadays, I have to think hard about the last time I wore those, so maybe I should take a second thought on the cords as well? I mean, I own cord skirts. They're cute and seventy-sy. And I know I have some grey pants in that style, somewhere in the back of my closet at home. I could get them shortened (nothing compares to the dread of too-long pants against my shoes) and pretend they're velour. It might work. I'll keep you posted....

Oh great, now my desktop froze and on a window that is not work stuff (work stuff - that sounds like such a weird thing out of my ink). I just hit reset, probably losing publishing data in the width of the internet in the process. Oh, well.

Anyways, I have taken a special liking to the "Parenting Honestly" posts on the-pool.com. Even though I have no reason to read about parenting experience whatsoever, I enjoy the writing styles of the authors, I like cute stories about toddlers (that sounds so bad if you wanna hear it the wrong way) and I tear up constantly when all the motherly love hits me through the lines. Oh and my other discovery is a lipstick column on there ("Sometimes it's the little things" - it's over now I think but there's loads of posts to catch up on). It's actually touching on some quite tough subjects but it does it well, y'know what I mean?

By the way, this is not a paid for advertisment for The Pool. I wish. Ha.

Last but not least, I bought new shoes. They're brown, and when I saw them in the store and they didn't have them in my size in black, I asked myself: Don't I need a pair of brown shoes? Because you see, the only ones I own are my cowboy boots, and they're not exactly everyday-wear (but I should get them out more often, thinking about it). And I am a firm believer in the theory that you should have a list of staples that you're sure you'll be needing in your life so that you won't feel bad when you splurge on them because you have valid arguments that support your decision.

Boom. Bought 'em.

Love,

Rosy Smith

The chief editor just told another editor her hair looks good in a sidepart. "Less fluffy than usual". Fashion, baby.

The hours. They're long. I mean, they start pretty late - I need to adjust my system to having time at home before nine am that is not spent sleeping. Otherwise, I'm so early that it doesn't even matter when I miss my subway stop due to composing risky texts. I even had time for a quick picture of the picturesque water situation at the wrong station. And today I got let out early because the editors were having prosecco anyways and were so kind to not make me work either.


The work. The first day, I was only packing boxes of specific clothes I had to find off racks of stuff that is hung in absolutely no apparent or even hidden kind of order. I swear I have had every single one of those items in my hand and I still can't remember where anything is. I'm itching to flipping reorganize that whole room in every way possible. Alphabetically, by use, length and color. Just give me a week. That day, I seriously wondered whether I am making enough of a difference in this world by doing this, but I blame those thoughts on my aching feet and back (a bit of existencial pleading never hurts. It makes your skin glow). Anyways, my tasks get more fun each day and right now I'm happily cutting out little purses and hats to go with some flatlays. If only the phone would never ring - I don't have my phone voice on spot yet, so I refuse to answer even though that's probably something an intern would do. But seriously, how do some people sound like they've been trained in a calming callcenter for years when they're speaking on the phone? It must be a God-given gift.

The desk. It's big and it's next to a huge window and there's all the good stuff on it (magic scotch tape and markers and little post its of which I use twelve a day just because I can). And a mac computer - when did those take over the world? And most importantly, why? Nothing follows intuition and everything's on the wrong side. The only positive thing about it is the giant screen behind which no one sees me checking my texts while I chat to the editors about annoying people who are on their phone all of the time.

I wish I could show you a picture of my precious paper cutting work but I believe I signed something like "I won't publish anything I see or hear" that sounded pretty serious.
Good thing I'm not a vlogger then.

Did I just laugh out loud to the TV or was I just thinking laughter? Is this what living alone feels like?

Hope you're good.

Love,

Rosy Smith

My dad asked me if I was going out the other night, 'cause I had my brightest red lipstick on, but unfortunately, my plans for the evening consisted of taping my mom's TV show (she was out dancing. Find the flaw). Anyways, I told him that's because I went to the hair salon. See, when you have to stare at yourself for an hour in unflattering light, you gotta do a little something pretty to your face. It worked quite well, actually. I got tiny corkscrew curls done with a scary looking hot tool (sometimes, the stylist, who's 16 weeks pregnant, got this spaced-out look in her eyes and smoke descended from my head and I'd get a bit worried, but let's face it, there's not much damage left to do to my hair, so).

Oh and while we're in the chair, let's all remember never to share a Cloud with a guy, even when you get married and have a kid, 'cause you may still break up and have to endure the fact that one day you look at your Ipad pictures and see a little (or a lot, depending on your ex's type) more of his new girl than you ever feared you would. And then your friend, the hair stylist, will be in danger to lose her job because she might not be able to withstand the urge to let the razor slip a little when he's coming to get his lying scalp fixed.

Fun fact, after having read way too many articles on people who've had strokes after going to the hair salon, I am honestly scared of getting my hair washed there. You know how it's, like, the most uncomfortable sensation on the planet when your neck is placed onto the rim of the sink? I tried to hold my head up hovering about it, but I lack the necessary muscles for that. So I just got really really tense and that made it hurt even more and then I tried to get myself to just relax and enjoy the back massage from the chair but then I thought "What if  I just said something it would safe me and if I didn't, something terrible will happen, due solely to the fact that I was too shy and too distracted by the freaking back massage to speak up?"

In the evening, I got a little headache and I had to ask my mom to do the FAST test on me and have her tell me that I'm completely overreacting until I could lay back and watch "The One In Barbados" (thinking about it, I could go finish that now).

Now my hair is alarmingly short but I've learned to accept that a long time ago, when I stopped having to be bribed to get it cut (I just want to state that my hair's never again been as long as it was when I was nine, so I was completely right in making a big deal out of it).

Love,

Rosy Smith

I rediscovered Cinderella 87 -  an Italian 80s musical made-for-TV movie I've never seen but subconcsiously listened to for years because my mom taped the soundtrack when she was a teenager; I bet that's why I'd think running off with a band guy to become a singer is an excellent idea.

Anyways, I think I was onto some very specific point here but I fear I forgot....it had to do something with clothes?

Ah, yes, got it!

Okay so recently, I was telling someone about my driving exams (yes we're talking plural, can we let it go now?) and how for the first one, I wore a purple tank top and black harem pants, an improvised outfit because I was due to go on vacation shortly after and all my summer clothes were packed up, and how that was a clear indicator for me to fail that day. I also told them about the second exam, where I chose to go for a "comfortable" look, which is always, always the wrong decision for me (so I should have known) consisting of a white t-shirt, a beige cardigan, light blue boyfriend jeans and Converse. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Probably something like "As long as I'm "comfortable", I'll be able to fully concentrate on my driving", which has, as you know, so not proven to work. Concentrated on failing, that did the trick. When I finally passed, I was wearing grey jeans and my beloved black knit backless sweater that keeps charmingly falling off one shoulder. That's what I call a winning outfit. However, the person I was talking to was most astonished by the fact that I recalled every single clothing item I've worn to those tragic occurrences. Like I'd think back and see myself sitting there wearing some clouds of grey smoke or whatever my mind makes up when it's not able to reconstruct stuff. Hello? I remember what each of us wore when we first met (a citrus colored dress shirt with tiny white checks, light shorts / a beige lace shirt with rose print, my tan suede miniskirt, ballet flats). I think it's common courtesy.

Also, to take this a bit further, I feel like there is this phenomenon called "Clothing Karma". I for one avoid wearing certain pieces of clothing that I've had bad experiences in for a while afterwards, 'cause they're too closely tied to the situation. That's why I neglected wearing the grey shirt with leather details I wore to my night driving lesson (to stay with that topic) for quite a long time (That was one terrible driving lesson, which says something, as I can't even remember a particularly decent one), especially for more lessons, because what if I simply can't drive well in this shirt?

I can't be the first to make that up. You must have some weird skeletons in your closet, too, haven't you lovelies?

Love,

Rosy Smith

....I got so soaking wet, I could easily pretend to have fallen into the Hudson. My hair is at its absolute worst - there're like seven streaks of rain-curled frizz on my head right now. See, we were forced to walk practically a hundred blocks in a constant drizzle to examine current fashion (meaning we touched stuff and mumbled "Oh, velvet" in the tone of a tv cook critically tasting someone's apple pie) and I had not considered that when I chose my teddy coat (that's not supposed to get wet), my boots (that are not supposed to be worn for hours of walking) and my bag (that's giving me a reason to go to the orthopedic) this morning. After reluctantly shuffling through Barney's with our over-excited teacher, a lady in running shoes bearing a linnen bag who has no fear of sales people asking if we need help (eg "buy something or I'll throw your lot out"), total doom followed.

"Let's go to Chanel", she chirped, and we all stood there on Madison Avenue like abandonded dogs, muffled into our coats, faces frozen in a frightened mask. She was serious. We trot in behind her, and I become urgently aware of my chapped boots, my non-existing makeup and the subsequent resemblance of a traumatized twelve-year old I am and my hunchbag walk due to my bag that's feeling more and more like a sack with cobbles every minute. Still, I try to remain dignified and haughtily let my gaze wander over the sparkling items, as if I was actually contemplating what I think is desirable. Same game at Gucci. Even though the carpet there is an actual dream - I wanted to lie down and sink into it so badly but that kind of behaviour, may be acceptable in an overcrowded Forever 21, not here, obviously. However, my teacher hasn't gotten the memo (I always thought that it was sent to everyone as soon as they touched an issue of Vogue. My bad) and tucks on everything and stretches the fine Italian fabric to the core - does she mistrust the legacy of good ol' Guccio? How dare she? We blinked hectically, morsing "We don't know her" to the security people hovering behind us (Gosh, they never trust anyone, but this time I kind of understood).

For the grande finale, we all tumbled into the sterile white glass castle of Dior. This time, our baggage didn't even make it to the stairs, because a young woman clutching a walkie-talkie threw herself in front of us, called something French to another employee (probably "I got them! womenswear is secure, repeat, womenswear is secure") and very kindly informed us that we weren't supposed to disturb the customers 'cause shopping is such an intimate experience and would we like to see the men's collection (where no one would be offended by the pitiable sight we are) instead?

You know, it is a bit demeaning that no one considered us customers. That's mostly our teacher's fault, who always darted into the store yelling "Hello, we're students from fashion school and just want to look around". If that hadn't been the situation and if I had only washed my hair and put on shiny shoes, I would've gladly wandered through all the shops I plan on raiding as soon as I have an adult job/marry rich (Joking. Mostly.).

The only great thing about my rank look has been that come that day, no one there will recognize me.

Love.

Rosy Smith

....and I find myself in the store with a heap of clothes over my arm, none of which bear any similarity whatsoever to a white cardigan.

I'm not always this successful while shopping, but sometimes, once I pull out one item, they just keep on coming. I was walking through Zara (a place destined to satisfy my sudden clothes cravings) with my oldest friend, and she wanted to find a nice blouse, so out of solidarity (because you don't let friends face the struggle of changing rooms alone) I grabbed a sweater from the sales hanger. And a cardigan (black) because it was soft and sparkly. Oh, and another sweater that seemed a bit nicer than the first one. It had a turtleneck, which I normally despise, but it looked so cute along with its 3/4 lenghth sleeves....and right before we entered the changing room section, I spotted a grey sirt and pulled it off the rack just to have something to try on with the shirts I had. I felt like my dark jeans didn't do the trick; I prefer to see myself head to toe in something new, for the effect. However, though I only took it for the illusion, this skirt happened to be an absolutely great find; midi length, really tight and with a slit down the side.
I don't know if everyone does this, but I have an imaginary wardrobe full of pieces I wish I had, and this skirt has basically taken from there and flung into my way past the ten dollar racket.

So, in the end, I bought a fully new, classy outfit (turns out the turtleneck goes great with the skirt and the cardigan is one of these items who make everything look like you tried and dressed up, 'cause sparkles tend to give that impression). The well-known rush of happiness (and I am a material girl, living in a material world....) overcame me.

Then I went home and realized, once again, that I still don't have a white cardigan and I still need one in my life.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....sitting on a train full of people coming home from work wearing a full evening make-up and tugging at your hair while checking out your reflection in the window. Avoiding the judgemental looks people who seem to be irritated by your bare legs keep throwing you.

Putting on another coat of lipstick for the thirteenth time when you get the chance to see yourself in the single mirror of your classmates apartment. Then, slumping around in an armchair while watching the other six people in the room contour their faces and straighten their hair.

Eating three quarters of an entire prosciutto pizza right out of the box. Praying there won't be any stains when you lift it up again. Redoing your lipstick, because grease.

Assisting someone who's wearing high heels. Also, freezing your skirt-clad behind off and holding on to your hair like a schizophrenic hearing voices because it feels like you're in a wind canal and no hairspray is strong enough to keep your needle thin hair down.

Walking along backdoors and brick bulding walls for so long you don't remember which show you came for. Feeling positively insider-y though.

More wind, then a tent which is surprisingly heated. There's carpet. Standing around chatting by the runway until some guy in a beanie tells you to get out of the photographers' view and take your seats.

Snatching an elegant black gift bag off the elegant white linnen seats. Taking fancy "I'm at a fashion show but it's not started yet so I'm basically backstage" pictures of the old factory hall the runway's in. I think it's cool, too, but I wonder what kind of weird fascination people seem to have with old factory halls. I mean, nobody would want to have a show in a new factory hall.

Two people sitting in front of you who are constantly giggling and wooing their designer friends. They are systematically emptying the little prosecco cans they've been collecting from the gift bags. Those two are always there in some form. They need to be there 'cause they can be fun for about five seconds. Just don't be them.

Watching the show with a semi professional look on your face. Thinking: This is so gorgeous, I want to wear that on a red carpet. I wonder what that song is called. That is a nice gown. Alternatively, thinking: Is that a tent? That girl must be wearing a tent. Because if that's supposed to be a dress, we need to talk about the definition of dresses.

Gulping down an entire bottle of juice (with a straw, because lipstick) and standing around in another tent looking out for possible business contacts/male models. Telling people you liked the show and forgetting your favorite collection so you just smile secretively when they ask.

Stuffing your face with another (cold) slice of pizza before getting into a cab and to the after-party. Realizing the after-party is a total bore filled with ladys in suspiciously sparkling dresses with cut-outs on the back. Graciously moving your shoulders for a mediocre fifteen minutes highlighted by a guy who's took the opportunity to show off his pole dancing skills. Being slightly put off. Leaving while your feet are still alive.

I hope you had an eventful night.

Love,

Rosy Smith


PS: Would you look at my excellent face swiping skills. It's beyond me how I'm not a retouching-artist.

....It all started a couple weeks ago when I had some free time during school hours and wandered into a shoe store to amuse myself. In the categorization of shopaholics, I'd say I'm a shoe//dress addict combination, so this is really no unusual place for me to seek satisfaction in. This store in particular had lots and lots of beautiful ankle boots and I wanted to own them all - who cares they're all plain black leather with a similar heel? Each one was smiling at me in an oh so irresistible way, I could only aw and beam at them in a happy daze, sauntering from one to the other. Then, I spotted them: The one pair of boots that wouldn't make me feel like I was eleven again and stuffing not-so-skinny jeans into shoes in which I look even shorter than I already am.

You have to know, lovelies, that I stopped wearing boots that go over my ankles years ago and have only worn low shafted ones ever since. Furthermore, I solely own a single pair of flat winter shoes because with all of the layers and fuzzy big coats going on at winter time, I like to stand as tall as I possibly can. I've not missed wearing boots much since I felt my legs show a lot better in ankle boots, anyways - however, recently I kinda wanted to have a pair again, just to provide a little more variety in the footwear game. But goodness, there are SO many weird flat overknees with a flap out there, as opposed to SO little options with a decent heel that isn't so thin that when you wear it to school or work people try to stuff money into their rim (those can be really cool, but I guess I want to start with more wearable ones and work my way up) and a height that compliments my leg. So, when I tried on my find back then, I was really excited about them and took some pics while I strutted around in the store, where I've felt so at home that I'd taken my coat off and left my shoes God knows where. Don't ask me where those vanished to.

And then, I didn't buy them.

I know! It's such a shame, but they were kind of pricey, and I hesitated, and then I had to catch a ride and go to class or something profane like that, and I left them.

But if it's real love, you'll always meet again, as someone wise probably said in a somewhat different context, so by fate, I walked into that same store last week and they had 50% off.
You heard me right. If that isn't the stuff great romances are made of, I don't know what is.
I quickly consulted the situation and realized I had to be on my stupid train home in six minutes, so I made dramatic promise to the sample boot and ran as "I will always love you" played from the station speakers....

The next plottwist is supposed to be a train delay on Monday when I'll gain enough time to try them on once again and sign my receipt. If that won't work out, pray for me that the 50 % discount will last until Wednesday, when I'll surely, definitely have a spare half hour to succeed.

Wish me luck.

Love,

Rosy Smith



UPDATE:

The discount lasted until Wednesday. However, they didn't carry my size anymore and I would've cried if I hadn't been distracted by a lady telling me not to leave my bag out of sight or it would get stolen. It was like my mother sent her.

At home, my warrior sense strenghtened itself and I started a semi professional online search and found a pair in my size! In a different city, but we're desperate here. I made a few calls, pridened myself and my investigative skills, and actually persuaded someone to get them for me and drop them at my doorstep. It felt like the last lines of a fairytale.

And here they are, my treasured ones:

Need to find that camera charger

....I have absolutely horrendous nails. It's not that mother nature carelessly made them inferior - they can be perfectly fine, but I'm not very good at keeping them that way. I fiddle on them when I need to keep my fingers occupied, which is the case most of the time. Taking care of cuticles? What? And if I try to be good and file them and put nail polish on myself, I'll be walking around happily for about three days, and then be too stressed to look for my remover, so I'd rather have scruffy, partly polished nails for three weeks straight until I get around to have them done. So, today was the big day!
The numbing yet comforting smell of chemicals welcomed me as I entered the salon. I dutifully held out my hands and tried not not take the sigh of the manicurist personally- at least she didn't laugh at me, like the man working there always does. I suspect him to gossip about my irregular nail lenghth  in Chinese whenever he's taking care of me. "Some long, some short" he says, and I'm like, yeah, why do you think I'm coming if not because I'm helpless? Very rude. However, I was assigned to the nice young girl who doesn't say much at all but at least doesn't make fun of me. I bravely held my breath while she pulled back the cuticles (but I'm crying with pain on the inside) and didn't say a word when she filed my left thumb nail which is so short that I didn't think it was possible to put a file under there. Anyways, now I'm feeling clean and proper again, no longer having to cringe as I put my change on counters and things like that.


 I believe it's CND's Copa Color shellac BUT I can't find it on the internet, which is weird. Also, I'm supposed to learn Photoshop in college and I can't even remove this shadow.
Today I also re-discovered Human by Christina Perri, which I imagine to be a great song for dramatically singing your heart out at a karaoke bar. Theme song of the day: But I'm only human....and I bleed when I bite my nails....I'm only human....and I break them using zippers....

Love,

Rosy Smith

So I'm here on my laptop, sitting on my wooden desk, I have two sheets with surprisingly readable handwriting sprawn out next to me (surprisingly 'cause I wrote them) with a report concept on them, concerning a report I am trying to write this very moment, and somehow I find myself looking at the total of my virtual shopping cart, thinking: How did I get here? And also: 50 $ really is a bargain for all this stuff.

You know what's sad: I don't know my jeans size so I can't add these high waisted ones to my cart, even though I need some to go with the cropped velvet top in there. Well, that might be okay, since these jeans are a kinda weird blue color, but it would have been so convenient.

I think the site is crashing. Dang, I wanted some high waisted jeans so badly.

Oh, here we go! Right, so I've found some nice grey ones that would double my total but I just remembered the size problem.

And now I know why the site crashed. It doesn't seem to take me clicking on the size chart very well.

Let's agree the second to smallest one could fit me.

I feel like finding jeans is only so hard because about 80 % of nowadays styles include at least two stupid holes right on the knees. I understand the concept of "destroyed", but I don't understand how looking like I conveniently fell on both of my knees or wanted to cut some funny eyes into my jeans is part of that concept. As if one could wear their jeans for a few years and they'd get ripped symmetrically. 

I can't be the only one feeling that way.

Love,

Rosy Smith

PS: If you've thought quick, you'd have noticed this doesn't really describe my day, but don't worry, we'll get to that!