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.
First of all, I love Detroit.
I love that there's nary a chain restaurant to be found downtown save the occasional fast food joint.
I love that raging parties pop up in shuttered buildings.
I love that on any given night I can listen to some live jazz in a space that saw prohibition.
I love that my new hipster hair salon is within walking distance. (I still miss you though, dear Philip)
I love that there's a magazine here that actually understands how to shoot a fashion spread, that there's a blue jeans manufacturer in an old auto plant and that everyone is just so very much digging being here.
I used to hear the cool kids in Indy complain about the city's lack of coolness. In Detroit, you hear no such thing.
But when it comes to being a clothes-obsessed young professional working in the hippest neighborhood in the D, there are some requests I'd like to submit to the fashion Gods. Feel free to add to this list, y'all.
1. Any semblance of shopping--I'm talking within Detroit city limits. Once you cross 8 Mile, the sartorial heavens part to reveal endless shopping opportunities of every flavor. In Detroit? Nada. As my coworker so astutely put it, "I've replaced my clothes shopping habit with a grocery shopping habit because there's nowhere to shop here." Sure, grocery shopping has its perks (cheese, oh my gawd, the cheese) but when one is eating more than usual while buying less clothes that fit...you see the conundrum.
My lunch hours in Indy were often spent perusing Circle Centre, just a stone's throw from ye olde Indianapolis Business Journal and gosh darn it I got spoiled. Oh what I wouldn't do for a mediocre shopping fix this afternoon at Carson's or T.J. Maxx. And no, I never thought I'd say this.
This morning as I rode up the elevator I realized I might have time to swing by the gym this afternoon after work (a rare occurance) but alas, I do not have gym clothes with me. In the Indy days I would've just popped over to the mall and purchased a new workout get-up in this situation. But in Detroit, I probably will end up forgoing the gym excursion all together in favor of yet another rich meal and early bedtime.
All I'm asking is one tinsy H&M people. Is that too much to ask?
2. A blowout salon like the one I just read about in the New Yorker--I work for a symphony, and quite often attend concerts after work. I'm not complaining, mind you, but when one has been working one's backside off all day, one doesn't exactly look (or feel!) fresh and spunky when one comes downstairs for the performance. In fact, one has flat hair, wrinkled clothes and stale makeup on one's face.
If there were a salon anywhere within city limits (it could be downtown, Midtown, Greek Town or where ever!) with a menu of blowout options like Drybar I would be a happy camper. I feel fairly certain there's a city full of young female doctors, lawyers, arts administrators, entrepreneurs, etc. who feel exactly the same way.