Well, Valentine’s Day has come and gone – I spent it on the couch watching the critically-acclaimed, guaranteed-to-make-you-cry-like-a-baby-when-two-senior-citizens-die-holding-hands, The Notebook. Bad move, I know. It was a rookie mistake.
Thankfully, the fashion gods have drawn my efforts away from self-destruction via Ryan Gosling-induced catharsis and have proffered another way for me to go: Delpozo FW14 trunk show on Moda Operandi.
“Create something unattached to the body that flows,” that’s what designer Josep Font told Style.com when expounding his sartorial aims for Fall ’14. I think Josep did more than that. For starters, he reinvented the plaid coat and gave us “the one”. At an easy-breezy six grand it’s no wonder his collection is revered like couture. I think a Rush Hour quote is apt here: “Who they think they got, Chelsea Clinton?”
I mean, if Leandra Medine is saving up for a pair of Isabel Marant shoes there is no way I stand a chance next to Nasiba Adilova’s bankroll when vying for this coat. She’s enlisted the entire city of Dallas and Miroslava Duma’s pinky finger in the fight for style supremacy. I’ve got $162 dollars in my chequing account and mad love for a city that eschews my affection for some rapper named Drake.
Here’s my plan (don’t laugh): I’m making a vision closet. It’s like a vision board only with clothes. On it I will adhere cut-outs of the various items I want. The various items that have ignited, indeed, that conviction of being totally complacent with everything but. (Thank you, Leandra, for articulating this). If Oprah wills it, they will be mine.
One day in early July I’ll be sitting at my desk as per usual, drinking coffee eating cookies, contemplating whether or not I’m witty in real life and the doorbell will ring. Actually, it will be my telephone ringing until I pick up the receiver and press nine, wondering in the five minutes it takes to get up to my apartment from the lobby “goddamn, what PR stunt is this now.” I’ll open the door to find a UPS guy and a “package for Justine Laboni” (of course who ever will know my last name starts with an i). Chicken scratch a quivering semblance of my signature with one long fingernail on a touchscreen and close the door.
A box. It’s my Pretty Woman moment. Enclosed, a letter penned by Josep Font: “Wouldn’t look better on anyone but you.” Then comes the tissue paper. Like foam at a college party in Cancun, I’m suffocating in it. Once it clears, a red ribbon and my plaid coat. Home at last. Where the heart is, where it belongs.
Let’s put that shit in the Universe.