The other day I was walking through Beverly Hills and I had several men and women compliment me on what I was wearing. I love when someone appreciates the effort it takes to make an outfit come together. I love it when I rock my wardrobe.
Call me shallow. Call me vain. I like dressing up—always have; always will. As a little girl, I would parade around my mother’s bedroom playing dress up in her finest clothes. I'm amazed she let my grubby little hands touch her Mad Men era custom-tailored Shantung silk dresses and matching satin shoes. I certainly wouldn't let a child anywhere near my closet, but my mother had strict rules, so I imagine I had clean hands. We were raised with manners and social graces. When we came home from school, we changed into clean clothes and washed up before dinner. On Sunday evenings, or whenever we had dinner guests, we dressed for the occasion. To this day, when I see little children wearing their Sunday best, it puts a smile on my face. I think to myself “that mother is doing something right.”
Having a passion for clothes is in my blood. My father’s parents were furriers and my maternal grandmother was a seamstress. The quality of her work was flawless and remains superior to the couture lines of today. The hand-sewn, custom tailored wedding dress she made for my mother out of the finest silk and lace would command a dear price in today’s market. Had she lived in another city, in another era, she would have been called a fashion designer. Because I grew up around furs, fabrics, and sewing machines, I was designing outfits for my Barbie dolls by age six, and eventually began sewing most of my own clothes --- mainly because I couldn't afford the fashions I so adored on the pages of Vogue magazine. I knew how to make them for much less.
I started reading Vogue when I was eight years old. I used to spend a great deal of time at my dad's office, and the only reading materials in the waiting room were Reader’s Digest magazines, an assortment of Archie and Ritchie Rich comic books my father kept on hand for the kids, and Vogue magazines. I guess my father was tapped into What Women Want long before Mel Gibson. They want fashion and folly, and that was what Vogue provided. Long before high school, I knew I wanted to be a model, a fashion designer, or a writer for the travel section of Vogue. My seventh grade yearbook was signed by my best friend, Sarah, another fashion enthusiast and hobby seamstress, with the word "Fashion".
I still love fashion. I love seeing what's current in the magazines, I love cruising the stores to see the new collections and color blocks, and I can't wait to change my closets over from fall/winter to spring/summer. It's that time of year again, and I'm excited and overwhelmed. I take my wardrobe very seriously. It's a two-day process deciding what stays and what goes, what will endure the test of time, what was a fashion faux pas, what needs mending, what needs cleaning.
Before any man decides to pursue me, I feel it’s only fair that he know this about me:
I am a dresser and a shopper. I always like to look my best, even if I'm just wearing sweats (Lululemon, please). My love of clothes has nothing to do with succumbing to the materialism of today's society; it’s in my blood, my DNA. It’s who I am.