Here I was thinking it was a good day when a co-worker dropped off a package at my desk containing the shoes I ordered last week. Five-inch tweed wedges with a suede heel. Let's face it, new shoes make any day better, help cure any ailment, heal any wound, etc. So yeah, the new shoes at my desk had me in a pretty good mood.
So good, in fact, I derailed my own productive morning to prance by everyone's office to ask if they liked them, knowing full-well they couldn't possibly care less either way. Heck, I even asked the consultant (who humored me by the way)--these shoes are that cute.
But then I walked by the mail room on my way to the powder room. I didn't walk by because I thought I had mail, mind you, because I rarely do outside of the regular newspaper or magazine or advertisement for new PR software, but because that's the way to the loo.
Against all odds I glimpsed a manila envelope in my mailbox. It wasn't in the "public relations" mailbox. It was in the Gabrielle Poshadlo mailbox. I'd already stepped one or two paces past the mail room before thinking this highly unusual, so I craned my head back to peer into the room, without moving my body. As the side of my head appeared in the doorway the facilities manager inside, Sue, looked at me like I was nuts. But I didn't care, because there the envelope sat, bearing my name handwritten in back marker. "The House of WORN," the return label read.
A feeling of warmth and flattery washed over me. I didn't know what WORN was, and I didn't know how they'd come to send me a package, but I did know it had something to do with clothes. Some how, fashion had found me at the DSO. All of a sudden, I totally forgot about the shoes.
It turns out WORN is something of a fashion scholarly journal, based out of Toronto. OK, OK, so it's not like, peer-reviewed with footnotes and that junk, but it's smart, and thoughtful, like few fashion publications are.
Only now am I delving into the Yale University Press review of Alexander McQueen's "Savage Beauty" exhibit at the Met, and the examination of "the evolution of identity in gay men's fashion from carnations to hot cops" (because let's face it, a girl has to actually get work done during the day and I'd already wasted too much time with the new shoes), but I'm totally smitten with WORN. It understands me, gosh darn it, as the educated, socially aware clothes-obsessed girly girl I truly am. The editor, Sarah-Marie McMahon, gave herself the title "Editor-in-pants" for gosh sake. Can we be friends?
After receiving WORN, I spent much of the day oscillating between puzzlement over from whence these magical documents had sprung, and pure egotistical glee over being chosen by the enlightened WORN people to receive their work of genius.
I guess I prolly would have been OK living on believing that the blog I barely update anymore (read: this one) had inspired these people in Canada to reach out to me through the international language that is cool clothes.
But luckily, reality is much much sweeter. Tonight, I got a text from my favorite. (You know who you are.) "Did you get a treat in the mail?"
Oh, favorite, I should've known you know me more than any Canadian editor-in-pants ever will. You're the best.
For the rest of you, read WORN. It's awesome town.