Wedge Woods

Standing online behind 4 other people all waiting to pay gives one time to assess the pending purchases. I loved the cognac, braided leather, 3 inch heeled sandals in my hand, and at 30% off full price, I loved them even more. But in a sea of wedges, I was holding the only actual heel and it gave me pause. Heels are fabulous, but not so much for walking on grass or cobble stones, carrying children, or walking fast to keep up with a boss who likes to walk and talk (all of which lay ahead for me this summer). So reluctantly, (even perhaps a little shamefully?) I stepped out of the line and returned the box to a near by couch with an apologetic smile in the direction of the salesgirl.

Satisfied to have averted a wasteful purchase, I redirected my focus to a new pair of wedges, much more practical for my upcoming season. If price is of no concern, Chloe does 70's wedge better than most. Since I will be spending more on diapers than on duds this summer, I need to steer clear of Saks. J.Crew's collection of Italian leather wedges is hard to pass up, most prices south of $200 lessen the blow as well. I love the Marguerite and the Sevigne, both modest in height (and both flattering on the leg, if I'm to believe the well accessorised salesgirl in Walt Whitman). For a less severe look, with slightly more refinement, Loft's Frankie Wedge is a must have (especially at $79.50). No matter how many pedicures I get during the summer, my sandals seem to be gross by the seasons end and I have a hard time squeezing out an encore. While this is usually a nice excuse to shop, I am having pains parting with a particularly perfect black and tan pair from Ann purchased in spring 2010. The search goes on.

Never Say Never...

At the risk of outing myself as a fashion hypocrite, I must admit to the facts of my day. I woke up at 7:00, when I had to be at work at 7:35 for meeting. While I usually lay all elements of my outfits out the night before (including under garments), lately this has still resulted in last minute changes to the chosen attire (the silk non-maternity tops Ive been clinging to for the past 32 weeks have officially been relegated to the unwearable section of the closet, along with many other items that pull at my heart each day. And mind you at 8 months pregnant I've gained exactly 19 pounds, which I hear is fairly standard and does not qualify me for the whale category yet, but tell that to my shirts).

So this morning, when the pre-selected gray silk tank pulled angrily at my stomach after being inched down over my shoulders, I ripped it off and frantically began digging through the cotton-spandex blended maternity tops from Pea in the Pod. With an acceptable top finally pulled comfortably over my bump, I needed a different pair of pants. Trusty demi-panel black pants were finally in the laundry, green cords worn the day before, and khakis saved for the spring like day predicted Friday. I eyed the top shelf, reserved for 'around the house' apparel, and slowly eased down a pair of black ankle length leggings with two fingers. With the tunic length top and ballet flats, they had to work for the day which now began in 10 minutes.

I wont lie, I felt comfortable all day, was able to sit and stand with zero textile resistance, and didn't rush to change when I got home this afternoon at the civilized hour of 4:30. I can't say I'm choosing function over fashion everyday, but today, the leggings saved me.

Expanding Shapes

The thrill of maternity clothes peaks around 20 weeks, when you can finally fit into those demi-panel Seven jeans, and super cute Pea in the Pod tops you've been eying since week 4. By 31 weeks, the novelty has worn off, and all I want is regular clothes that are not cut like burlap sacks. As a 400 person gala I spend all winter organizing is fast approaching, the non-maternity size 2 Ann Taylor jersey dress that fit me last week no longer looks so cute this week (it has no zippers, buttons or closures, and is simply one straight cut piece of spandex that expands as it needs to. Picture eating nachos, a burger, and molten chocolate cake at Chili's, and never having to unzip your pants. It feel like that). Despite the addition of a maternity Spanx and fabulous bib necklace, my mirror just doesn't think the dress works anymore.

Luckily, stores such as Nordstroms offer many acceptable options, at prices that ease the pain of the purchase (I hate buying a dress I am destined to wear only once, I always try to get at least 2 wears per buy). I also love Isabella Oliver, but price tags north of $120 for a dress that will fit for about 8 more weeks just sting too much. With the help of my friend from college (whose May 14th wedding I will be in labor and delivery during), I anxiously await the arrival of my Olian colorblock dress, pictured right (reminiscent of Reese's Oscar gown on some small level) to see me through the event in 6 short weeks.

Stripes and Stripes and Stripes

I came home from a shopping trip this weekend, hung up my new purchases immediately as usual, and had to do a double take in my new 10 foot deep walk in closet. There were now no less than 7 blue and white striped tops in the wardrobe (and this doesn't take into account the several more likely in the summer storage bags under the bed).

I had come home from Ann Taylor Loft with a hop in my step from the purchase of this super cute striped tunic (in a drapey cut that fit me now at 7.5 months pregnant, and will still look cute come summer). But my bubble was slightly deflated at the sight of so many similar tops, all in the same navy and white color combo (not to mention the above J.Crew blazer, and a few similar sweaters). I'm not sure there is ever a time that I can resist a striped top, and when given the option of several colors, I apparently stay loyal to my favorite in nautical classics. (I think they say to avoid horizontal stripes if you want to appear slimmer, and I'm not sure that at 30 weeks along, I should be donning them. But what I like, I like.)

So next time I head out and am wooed by the ubiquitous stripes that come with the season, I'll try my best to avoid a repeat impulse buy (or at least I'll attempt a different colorway, I do like red and white too).

Jean Scene

I love denim as much as (if not more than) the next person. But a few head to toe looks from FW 2011 have left me cringing, no matter how 'chic' the critics may find it to be.

I'm happy to see the return of the trouser cut, which flatters most shapes, unlike the skinny jean which really doesn't look good on more than half of the people who wear it. (I'm also happy that I held on to my favorite Seven Dojo cut from college, which will likely still fit post baby, since at 7 months pregnant, I've yet to hit my early college weight).

Though jean shorts find their place on the runway, I find them best left to those under the age of 15 attending summer camp (although after watching too much of Dateline's 'To Catch a Predator', I think perhaps only pedophiles still wear them). Dsquared's version pictured left may be okay if you have those legs (and are not a 40 year old single man on the Internet).

Light weight denim and chambray have remained on the scene since the early 90's when Kelly and Brenda donned their favorites on 90210. (My favorite denim top is actually from the Gap, circa 2003. But I'll consider adding a short sleeve variety to the mix for spring '11). The hunt for the perfect wedge to add a little height to those trousers begins next.

Old is New

Like wine, cheese, and Chanel, most things getting better with age. And with fashion, this can be true as well. Designers like Kate Spade have built empires on the vintage charm of an antique lace hem and a retro circle skirt with mary-janes.

I have an aversion to goods that have actually been worn or used (something about soft fabrics and their absorbency that just creeps me out), but not to their style. Vintage is more a state of style than a fact for me (unless we're talking about my grandmother's raffia envelope clutch from 1930). The Times talked to a few women who resurrect decades past every weekend when they don their dated duds and frequent New Orleans hot spots. Their frocks may have all the charm of a 1950's Chevy, but none of the age. Many designers have hopped on the 'old is new bandwagon' and are producing lines that ooze retro rehab, yet are made from newly minted fabrics.

There may be a drop of inauthenticity to this approach, but I'm not really sure its any different that using soy instead of regular milk- you want the flavor, but not the dairy. Style is dynamic, dimensional, and steeped in scents of those who came before. It takes a little from here, some more from there, discards what doesn't work (still waiting to see leggings drop off the fashion map) and retains that which inspires. In fashion, there is little that excites me more than a polka dot shirt dress, a full skirt nipped in delicately at the waist, or a pair of peep-toe ankle booties (I take my vintage with a healthy dose of modern). History can be brilliant.

Fools Gold

Since E started airing all episodes of Sex and the City, I've been happily catching up on all that I've been missing since my DVD collection never made the move out of the city with me (some lucky person who frequents the Salvation Army is enjoying my repertoire as a bonus to his TV stand purchase).

Last night's episode was the famous post-Aidan break up (part 1) trip to LA where Samantha and Carrie consider buying a fake Fendi, only to realize just how sad the impostors look in the trunk of the car in 'the Valley'. Happily the story concludes with a reflection on how, even if others are fooled, Carrie would always know her bag was a fake. A victory for fashionistas and intellectual property lawyers alike.

Unfortunately not all North Shore Long Islanders adopt this philosophy, and I was forced to share a train seat with one such offender. It was bad enough that my warmest winter coat just barely zips over my 26 week stomach, the train arrived 15 minutes late, stopped numerous times between stations, and then crawled into Penn Station with the effort of an elderly man on oxygen. But the entire ride a large, middle aged woman insisted on resting her faux Gucci bag against my thigh, pressing it more firmly into me with each voyage her hand took to retrieve another snack. I tried to escape the contact of the vile object (made from who knows what), but I could only plaster myself against the armrest so hard before it began leaving an imprint in my side. Somewhere outside of Jamaica I couldn't tolerate it any longer, and found refuge standing near the doors. I suppose this is something I'll have to adjust to as a suburbanite.