Le photo by Caroline Owens

Two years ago, I turned thirty, feeling completely on top of my game. I had a new boyfriend who had just gifted me with a fancy trip to Asia. I had friends, family and a studded Wang dress to celebrate in. I had no regrets and enough debaucherous memories to get me through a lifetime of domestic mundanity. I had an exciting new career opportunity. In my mind, all the puzzle pieces were in the palm of my hand and life would easily fall into place.

Since then, I have been through two breakups, one real loss, one real love, sleepless nights, awful dates, amazing trips – enough interchanging light and darkness to make life feel like a damn marinière. Your early thirties are exciting, fascinating, fast – the stakes are higher, the game is more challenging, and there is so much less time to waste on bullshit. The blazing flag of your twenties – assurance – is constantly knocked down by new knowledge and theories, forcing you to evolve. The more you know, the less you really know.

Here are a few things I have on lockdown so far. Forgive me if I change my mind about them tomorrow.  Read More

I will start with the (chronological) end of the story: I recently went through a breakup. It was a tough yet clean-cut, with enough clarity to know that it was the right decision. I dealt with it like somebody who had been through a breakup before (It’s like riding a bicycle! Through hell!) I ran, cried, drank, danced, posted dumb things for attention. I kept a running iPhone note where I recorded all my fleeting thoughts and emotions – which, by the way, seemed to change at supersonic speed. I made conclusions, then made peace with the conclusions. I did the steps.

And yet, there was still something that kept on sabotaging the process. Something disgustingly familiar, telling me that, perhaps, I just hadn’t been enough – pretty enough, smart enough, patient enough – enough to be adored until the golden years. Lo and behold: my Ego had returned.

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Hi friends!

Today, we will temporarily veer off our regular programming en lieu of a Fashion 101 that was requested by a handful of those who have yet to understand why their Instagram feeds are flooded with enraged commentary about the latest Celine show. Personally, I’m so excited that something other than Bella’s crop tops and Yeezy pantyhose has reached those with little interest in the fashion world, that I will gladly utilize my (waning) industry knowledge to decipher.

Let’s start with a quick crash course. Here is what you need to know before we proceed:

Most major fashion houses are owned by huge luxury conglomerates, the key players being LVMH (Louis Vuitton, Dior, Celine, etc.) and Kering (Gucci, Balenciaga, Saint Laurent, etc.)  These parent companies hire creative directors (i.e. head designers), who, in turn, imbue the brands with their respective vision.  Sometimes, the creative directors are celebrities in their own right (think Karl Lagerfeld at Chanel); other times they are behind-the-scene mavericks who are largely unknown to the public. Sometimes, they respect the inherent brand codes; other times they have their own, impenetrable vision. Like with any job, they can stay anywhere from one season to a few decades. The most important thing, to the suits-in-command, is that they SELL.

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Gloria Steinem likens travel to sex. To quote directly from her new book, My Life on the Road, “[moving from place to place] is right up there with life-threatening emergencies and truly mutual sex as a way of being fully alive in the present.”

For the past decade, travel has served as my best medicine, a surefire way to reboot my brain and move forward as a tweaked version of myself. Following a few shitty weeks – fine, months – this was exactly what I was seeking when I galvanized a group of friends into an impromptu South of France romp, appropriately monikered #EuroMess2018.

And, boy, what a glorious mess it was!

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Warning: this is an exhausted topic. Those seeking novelty may click over to Wired to learn about robots using Airbnb. 

July marked the official kick-off of #Summer2018 vacation season, that riveting time of the year when the Instagram elites relocate to their Mediterranean outposts, bouncing from Mykonos to Positano to Capri faster than their Hermes Oran sandals can carry them.

I am usually immune to said Insta-circus. It appears that everything I lack in emotional stability, I make up with a very weak envy gene that allows me to focus on the tryptic of Me, Myself and Moi rather than the lives and possessions of others. (Actually, I kind of want Oran sandals, is that bad?)

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So, the narrative has changed.

I am now one of “them.” Namely, one of the Happy People, sailing through the world sans problems or concerns. Actually, forget the world – we live in a different stratosphere, a utopian planet where (pre-Hedi) Céline is free and multi-continental real estate is a rite of passage and North Korea is a natural reserve, haven’t you heard?

Why? Because I’m in a relationship, of course.

Just last week, three people who must have glimpsed my recent Instagram Stories decided to congratulate me on this grand accomplishment. “You’ve been together for a while now! It seems so perfect!” they remarked, as though I had passed some grand milestone that now made my relationship Real. (Then again, I probably had.) After this, they all stared, waiting for me to break into a sonnet about the Power of Love.

I was conflicted. Sure, part of me wanted to comply and tell them what they wanted to hear, cutting the inquisition to finish. At the same time, bullshit isn’t my brand.

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