The Wind Beneath My Whines

Trench Coat (H&M, similar here) Sweater (Zara - old, similar here and here), Jeans (J.Crew - self-cut because they were too damn long and they look better this way, similar here), Sneakers (Converse - sold basically everywhere since basically the beginning of time), Ring (Blanca Monros Gomez via Of a Kind) 

We were getting pretty cocky there with that seemingly steadfast warm weather (or at least I was, with my bare legs and my silky tank tops that seemed to evaporate at even the slightest of touches), but this is still San Francisco after all, and this city is nothing if not temperamental, drought and all. What's a jaunt home from a long day at work without the sour face sensation of stinging gales slapping your body around to remind you that you're aliiiiiiiiiiive (!!) and that walking is hard? I ASK YOU.

Between the scores of plebs that have permanently lost their ability (did they ever have it to begin with?????? I wonder..) to walk in a straight line at a healthy pace, and the tempestuous proclivities of the air here, moving about the streets of this city can be damn near impossible at times, depending on your location and your constitution. 

As such, my finely tuned capacity to hate things, both acutely and expansively, has been further honed over the years as I've frequented these streets. And whereas previously, in more cynical times, I would have kicked and spat and clawed at the gusts of human particles the city was throwing at me, these days—because along with baby smooth skin, an abundance of maturity and wisdom, and fewer physical ailments, aging also brings with it an increasingly sunny disposition, especially in the face of conflict—I simply greet the wind with a smile, and a thick sweater. 

ELL-OHH-ELLLLZZZZZ.

Get Down

Dress (Cooperative via Urban Outfitters - old, similar here), Blazer (Bebe - so old, similar here and here), Sneakers (Converse - you can seriously buy these everywhere), Watch (Marc by Marc Jacobs), Necklace (Dogeared)   

My usual view (read: unwavering gaze of scrutiny) from atop 5-inch heels, stomping around at 6'2'' feels a lot different than the view from down here in these sneakers, where the air is much less intense, and considerably more blithe. And while normally I reserve my flat-wearing exploits for matters relating exclusively to running, the beach, and/or the grocery store, in recent months, sneakers have been sneakily (<— pun intended, but not because it's a particularly good one) making their way into my shoe rotation, despite my better efforts to stay altitudinous.

I think this mostly has to do with the fact that there are so many goddamn cute sneakers out there these days, and the fact that earlier this year, I was forcibly flattened (as it were) when I stupidly sprained my ankle falling down my stairs—NOT wearing heels, mind you! I am much more stable in stilettos than I am in flats. (I got really good at figuring out how to make a limp look like it's a part of your outfit, by the way.)

Whatever the reason for my tennis shoe fetish lately, the outcome is the same, and pleasantly amusing in that I've taken to mostly wearing sneakers with dresses and skirts, a trend perfected by Leandra Medine, and 4-year-old girls everywhere who choose their own outfits. And those toddlers know what they're doing, with that kind of carefree spirit—a youthful inhibition—coupled with a sense of purpose that makes them say, "I'm wearing my purple princess dress with my light-up sneakies today, Mommy!" (I realize children probably don't sound anything like this). Which makes me think, maybe the reason sneakers have been peppering my outfit lexicon as of late is because my subconscious knows they're somehow good for me.

Grounding oneself (literally) with a pair of sneakers worn with say, a party dress, or a blazer (or both!), knocked down off of your high-heeled pedestal—your place of carping, does sort of give you some perspective (figuratively) in the sense that you can't really take yourself—or anything for that matter—too seriously when you're prancing around in a polka dot dress and a pair of high-tops (it's reeeeally hard to act huffy when your shoes squeak—trust me, I've tried). 

But maybe a forced mood of "eh-I-guess-it's-not-that-big-of-a-deal-I'm-wearing-tennies-today!" insouciance brought on by a happy pair of rubber-soled sports shoes, is a dose of perspective we all need every once in a while in the midst of our overly urgent and upsetting, EVERYTHING'S SUPER IMPORTANT ALL THE TIME ALWAYS day-to-day lives. I know I need it. And so what if it's a pair of ground-hugging gym shoes that reminds me to chill the fuck out sometimes and happily shrug something off?

Sometimes you've got to get down to get up.