What a Waist

I own a vintage, dirndl-style Yves Saint Laurent skirt that's one of the most cherished items in my wardrobe. It's from the designer's Spring 1980 Rive Gauche collection and it's constructed from a beautiful black cotton that's simultaneously sturdy and soft.

One would think, once you go ready-to-wear you never go back, but there's a little thing called cost of living in NYC. So I make due with what I have. One day very soon though...

The skirt is exactly the size of my waist—no bigger, no smaller. I'd been wearing it all morning two Fridays ago, and up until lunch time, I was quite comfortable. However, I stuffed an entire platter of Indian food down my throat. Let's not forget that nan expands once it settles into your digestive system...or at least it feels like that. Some bubbles from a bottle of San Pellegrino helped, but that didn't cure my overstuffed feeling.

Later that night I met up with Jess to see Fat City at Film Forum. After the film we noticed David Byrne in the lobby. And to strike up a conversation, I thanked him for all of his Brazilian Luaka Bop releases and kept it moving. Perhaps one day Mr. Byrne will be thanking me for spreading the Style Therapy message to the masses?

In any case, Jess and I (sans David Byrne) headed to El Paso on West Houston for dinner. Who does Indian and Mexican in span of 6 hours? Your Style Therapist, that's who. After downing the most beautiful chimichanga I've seen in a while, I began to feel the repercussions. You know those pregnant women who are in denial and insist on wearing their pre-baby bump clothes and belts tightened to conceal their condition? That's how I felt. How my skirt made it home without ripping at the seams is a miracle.

My natural waist had expanded by a good 3", and mind you, there's no elasticity, whatsoever, in my favorite skirt. The only casualty was a button that had been a little dangly prior to my gluttony. This is a cautionary tale to all of my beautiful clients. Please, when wearing your more more choice pieces that can't be replaced, stay away from the curry vindaloo.

Rei Kawakubo Knows What's Up

I own a flat, black leather Comme des Garçons (no, not from the H & M line; we've been over this) tote bag. It's by far the simplest accessory I own. There are no pockets, buttons, zippers, bells, or whistles; just two panels of leather and two handles. Most interestingly is how the bag was designed to carry only the essentials. While the bag is deep, if I carry a bottle of water, the shape is grossly distorted, compromising the aesthetic integrity of the bag.

I think our girl Rei Kawakubo knew exactly what was up when she conceived this bag. The only way this tote can retain its shape is if I kept my impedimenta to a minimum. Interesting word, impedimenta. It's the Latin plural for impedimentum, which means "baggage or other things that retard one's progress." Basically JUNK.

As our bags continue to grow bigger—in essence the SUVs of leather goods—we manage to stuff them with impedimenta: fat wallets, two-way pagers, mobiles, bottles of San Pelligrino, iPods, brown bag lunch (we're in a recession, remember?), check books, makeup case, scarf to accommodate the indecisive weather, last month's Bazaar, this month's Paris Vogue, feminine hygiene products, Moleskine notebook, moisturizer, Altoids, lip balm, sunglasses, sunglasses case we never put the sunglasses in, French pocket dictionary even though the trip to Paris was over two years ago, phone charger, those MC Hammer pants that refuse to float away so we plan on consigning them, flats to change into when the heels get to be too much, impedimenta that's been under our work desks for month, ticket stubs, loose receipts, camera and camera case we never put the camera in, Hi-Liter markers, Sharpie markers, mechanical pencil, book we should be reading but haven't gotten to because of the Bazaar and Vogue, yesterday's lunch from Los Dados, a smaller bag for later in the evening because this tote bag is too big, big tub of cocoa butter...

And we wonder why one shoulder is lower than the other.

Smell Ya Later

Hey Mister, looking good. You know it, too...but I can smell you. You're waaaaaaaaaay over there and I'm waaaaaaaay over here.

Listen gents, as a Style Therapist I can really appreciate you taking the time to bring your A-game. But does this attention to detail HAVE to involve so much cologne? My nostrils are on fire and my eyes are watering. It's not even that your Eau de Homme smells bad, there's simply too much of it on your body. Take it easy for the public's sake...please!

We can still smell you 10 minutes after you've left the building. I know what you do, too. You lay your outfit on the bed and spritz the cologne all over—front AND back. In your mind, this is the subtle way to get your scent out into the atmosphere. But you don't stop there. You put it in your hair, on your neck, the palms of your hand—you refuse to leave any molecule unbathed in your special spice.

Please give the public's olfactory nerves a break. Your cologne seeps into our skin, attaches itself to our hair, our couches, car seats and any other surface that absorbs odors. My advice is to spritz in the air and run through the mist. That way only someone close enough to whisper can smell you. You're more appealing and mysterious that way. While you may be suffering from colognism, it's manageable disease. And in some cases, I've known it to be cured.