Ultra Violent Self Care

 

Photo: Joshua Franzos

 I found an abandoned book at my gym. I let it sit on the magazine table by the elipticals for two weeks before I had enough courage to just take it. I get sentimental about books; I assume everyone is the same way. What if someone had just forgotten it? But that wasn't the case. Someone didn't want it. Or, someone put it there to ensure some curious sap, *me*, would read it. I still don't know why someone would abandon this book, but before I tell you of the mysteries and secrets I gained, I want to talk about something else.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Self-Care. It was called grooming back in the day and we just did it. Now it's a loaded word that conjures the memory of our last scroll through instagram. Influencers and influencer wannabes are always declaring #selfcare and #treatyoself for themselves with swipe-up links so their followers can buy the latest potion, unguent, face mask, tooth whitener, dietary supplement, $60+ candle, et alia that so & so is #currentlyobsessed with because, because. 

SCENE I
INT. BATHROOM - DAY 

Influencer content photo on a phone screen depicting a "bottle of whatever" artfully nestled on a fornasetti tray with a sprig of eucalyptus and an artfully folded white spa towel. Extra points if there's droplets of steam on a mirror and a slightly out of focus reflection of an INFLUENCER wearing a white terry cloth robe and towel on her head while she poses like an Avedon model.

 INFLUENCER

(peace sign and sticks tongue out)

Hey Guys! Hashtag selfcare! If this doesn't work, guess a glass of Champs (or three) will take care of the rest. haha LOL JK but literally, OMG, I'm like so shook by this product, I can't. You guys have to try this, I've linked it here for you.

Subtext: this pricey product (that may or may not be snake oil) is definitely the answer to your crippling anxiety and stress.


The benign acts of grooming we used to do on the edge of the toilet seat with a bottle of drug store nail polish (and without a supplicant audience) have been upgraded to a near spiritual status that rivals going clear in Scientology. The more money you spend, the more luxurious, the better a person you must be. We want to simultaneously justify and flaunt it by upgrading its sundry status to that of an ablution. It's utterly endemic to social media. I wish I was immune to it, but I still get caught up in the hyperbole of radical beauty world fundamentalism. Pretty flat lays and teary-eyed, squeal-y voiced IGTV testimonial videos are the silkily cloaked ads that tap into our insecurities and inspires our selfcare fomo.

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

The luxurious selfcare movement has pied pipered us to the belief that we can gloss over our myriad problems by lavish coddling. But remember that magical book I was telling you about earlier? It's led me to understand that self care doesn't always feel good. Pssst, wanna know a free and effective secret to glowy skin? We'll do it together. First, let's turn off our phones and set them aside. Now, let's take the palm of our hands and on the count of three. 1...2...3! slap yourself across the face. Snap out of it!

Self-Care is masturbation,

now self-destruction...

A bold statement that echoes the words of Chuck Palaniuk and Jim Uhls from Fight Club twenty years ago, but is tweaked a bit for our current culture. (It was self-improvement back then and there were rows, upon rows, upon rows of it at Barnes & Noble. Perhaps there still are in the dwindling stores.) So let's start talking about what I like to call Ultra Violent Self Care.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Back to the book. By now you probably think it's bound with human flesh and its over 200 years old. It's not. It's called Glow15: A Science-Based Plan to Lose Weight, Revitalize Your Skin, and Invigorate Your Life by Naomi Whittel

It literally looks like every other diet book out there. Hell, the first fifty or so pages are as gratingly optimistic and obnoxious as the testimonial portion of a every infomercial on the planet. But the thing the hooked me was a word I'd never seen before in a nest of other familiar words lining the book jacket. Autophagy. A word originated from ancient Greek, and it means 'self-devouring' -- As in our cells houseclean themselves regularly. Old and damaged cells get "eaten" or recycled to create new, healthy cells. Cannibalism! This cellular refreshing happens a lot when we are young, and you'll never believe this, JK, but it slows down as we get old. 
I don't know about you, but when I hit 39, my skin was really starting to show its age, my age...our age, not to mention it was taking a lot longer to heal from the blemishes that seemed to be happening more and more frequently. Also, it took so much longer to heal from sports injuries than it used to. SO. I was quite eager to read how to combat the effects of aging, and this "slowing down" I wasn't nearly ready for via "autophagy." Read I did. I learned it is a very hot topic in the science and medical fields and the study of it garnered a Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 2016. It's still a largely not entirely understood mechanism, but tests on mice have shown that there are significant inflammation, tumor, and cancer reducing properties to it. I also learned there are things we can do to jump-start and re-stimulate our individual autophagy processes and while they're not all glamorous and soothing self-care routines, they do produce results. In fact, they're more like self work, or self challenges, than what we routinely think of as "caring," or as I like to call it, Ultra Violent Self Care. You remember your tough love high-school track coach that shouted, "pain is weakness leaving the body?" Yeah. It's more like that.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Okay. so Ultra Violent self-care.  I mean intentionally, challenging, "starving", inflicting micro amounts of damage or stress to yourself to kick start the cellular renewal process. Things like: Intermittent Fasting, Protein Cycling, High Intensity Interval Training, the usual reduction/elimination of simple carbs, and the upping of healthy fats into my diet (in a eye-brow raising way.) Fat isn't the enemy. Going to get micro-needling sessions, which is like aerating your lawn, but with micro-needles on your face.  I dove in, and Josh started noticing my results almost immediately. So he joined out of his own free will. We've both lost body fat and gained lean muscle, our diet has never been healthier, our skin is looking great, and we feel so much more like our mental age. (25) We love it. 

But then this silly "diet" book started me thinking about the many levels of autophagy in our life. Of course on a cellular level, where lysosomes and autophagosomes interact (LMAO sounding like I know wtf I'm talking about), and then there's the body on a body level, kind of it's own cell in the world at large: the body fat-burning autophagy process that is triggered by not eating between the hours of 8pm-12pm every other day and of course the high intensity interval training. Then of course there's the emotional level of cleaning out the old and organizing our lives in order to make way for newer, healthier things in our physical spheres, and how they spread to other entities, and their communities, our social networks...These things have ripple effects. I think science is trying to discover the link and the talking between the ripples, or at least that is what I'm interested in.

photo: Joshua Franzos

So let's go back to social media self-care cult of personality. Yes, it's so easy and tempting to do what feels good. We all want to crawl back into a protective womb, but knowing the difference between the self coddling types of self-care and the uncomfortable self-work kind of self care, and the exact moments and durations we need each, is key. You have to do the work, or the coddling types are just band-aids on a spiritual problem. It is also my belief that we should absolutely do things that feel good for the right reasons...a verb that comes up quite frequently in the selfcare world is "deserve." I personally hate the word deserve. I hope to purge the word from my lexicon because I don't possess the omniscience to call it for others, and I hate the entitlement it summons when I use it for my own character. "I deserve this," for good or ill, does not belong in my vocabulary. It implies a quid pro quo relationship, and the power dynamics of such, don't really speak to autonomy, and all of that is perpetually unchic, especially now. However, "I'm doing this." period, without explanation, justification, apology, or social media validation is true and blue.

photo: Joshua Franzos

What do you think about the self-care movement? Does it inspire you? Enrage you? Make you feel fomo? Make you feel like the beauty standards are impossibly high and ever increasing? Feel class lines? Do you want to hear more about Glow15? Let me know in the comments.

What I wore:
glasses: Hunter S. Thompson range glasses dupes, here.
dress: one of a kind.
moto jeans: dittos vintage 
cuff bracelet: vintage.
shoes: Nike vandalized LX, here.
Purse: Alexander Wang Brenda bag,here.
Belt: Gift from Anna Sui.
glitter eyeshadow: Urban Decay Heavy Metal Face & Body Glitter Gel
 in Party Monster, here.

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh, 

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Power Suit

photo: Joshua Franzos

It was November of 2018 and while scrolling through instagram, I'd spotted the coolest suit I'd ever seen. It was a red leopard suit by R13 and it made every cell in my body quiver. It was so tacky it was intellectual, which if we're being honest about my personal style, is exactly that. The only problem was, it was well over $4K. I'm forever cursed with expensive taste. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

I ducked my head back into the busyness of the holidays, but a Lovecraft-ian elder evil stirred within me. An idea surfaced one day in February like alligator eyeball emerging from the murk of my depression. What if someone else made a red leopard suit that didn't cost so much?

I googled. I found. 

Suit separates. 100% polyester* Jacket in my size. Last pair of pants in a size 14. 

I bought anyway. Pants can be tailored. Total: $66.50 pant tailoring extra: $20

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

The first time I pulled my arm through the jacket's satin lining, a guitar ballad wailed, swear to God.
After a few years of depression, I got my mojo back in an instant and forever set myself down a path of confidence and "out there" style. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

Therefore I feel like I'm uniquely qualified to give you a few pointers on how to find the inner spirit animal of your personal style. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

1. Ask yourself if you will want to wear it six months or even six years from now.
2. If something makes you smile, wear it. 
3. If it gives you joy, wear it.
4. See #1 and #2  and stop caring what other people think.  
5. Begin noticing what your joyful things starts attracting into your life. take note. extend invitations if you wish. They'll become your magical companions.
6. Don't take it too seriously. Make sure you have fun. 
7. Ask for help from people you trust if you need it. Turns out, people really love to give out their opinions, (but not all of them are valid or solicited.) So make sure you always check back with your inner spirit animal guide, and guidelines 1-4.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Can you guess what my spirit animal is?

What I Wore: 

Suit: ASOS

Band tee: The Doors, some rock t-shirt catalog.

Rings: vintage sterling

Boots: my trusty Sam Edelmans.

Sunnies: Ray-Ban.

Reminder: If you click on any links I provide, there's a small chance I may earn or profit off of it someday. But I honestly haven't yet, but still required by law to say this. I wish I could provide you with more links to find the stuff that I wear, but alas, that is the problem with buying second hand and/or on sale. I post similar things where I can and on occasion, the actual items.

*giddy side note: synthetic, but non finicky fabric that can be thrown in a washer gets me reeeaally excited because adderall makes you sweat and dry cleaners either can't or won't properly clean the stank out the armpits.

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh, 

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Seasonal Change Denier

photo: Joshua Franzos

As soon as the calendar flips up to September, I plug my fingers in my ears, pinch my eyes shut, and yell LA LA LA LA LA at the top of my lungs. I don't want to hear, think, or acknowledge that summer is over, not even when it's officially over when the autumnal equinox lands in our laps (September 23). NOPE NOPE NOPE. It's still 86 degrees, NOPE.

Even though I don't hate fall: changing leaves, fall fashion, and steamy crock pot goodness do make it quite tolerable after all. However, the sheer busyness of the season makes it harder to live in the moment which makes it just a steep, slippery ski slope into the miser's purse of winter. Therefore I must be dragged, kicking, and screaming from summer every year. It is tradition. You got your pumpkin spice, I throw summer time and livin's easy tantrums.

This year, however, as the mornings grow darker, clouds of my breath grow visible, and my 5am walks to the gym start requiring a jacket...I've found myself wondering how my big spring and summer personal style renaissance and subsequent closet overhaul will evolve into the cooler, wetter seasons. So I guess in some way that makes me kind of excited for Fall...for the first time ever.

Oh snap.

We never discussed my personal style renaissance on here did we? *begins sucking teeth.* I wasn't gonna go there today, but ok. Yeah...I guess that needs to be spilled.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Um. It was February. I was trying to lose some weight for my physical and mental health, and it was going well until I injured my lower back when I tried to do some box jumps. Evil explosive movements! So I returned to physical therapy and did a lot of slow cardio on the treadmill. It was stupid slow at first. 1 1/2 hours of slow walking will drive you bonkers unless you entertain yourself, so I started doing a lot of busy work on myself. A couple years ago, I'd flirted with understanding what my personal style was, but that got put on the back burner. So, with phone in hand and the treadmill speed set to a zippy 2.0,  I fell down that rabbit hole.

photo: Joshua Franzos

One of my Pittsburgh blog pals, Sarah (@sawissinger) of the Surznick Common Room wrote this really great post on fashion industry waste and introduced me to the online second hand store thredUP in 2018, but I did not check it out until ASOS royally screwed me on a lost package this February/March. I talked in circles with ASOS's customer service and I'm not convinced I ever "spoke" to a human. There is no hotline option, only chat and email. I did a lot of business with ASOS over the years and they would not give me, a valued customer, credit for the lost package. So. Like a scorned lover, I started researching other fashion forward companies that might appreciate my business more. I unfortunately couldn't find very many retailers in my style with affordable prices and good customer service policies. So I turned my eyes to thredUP.

photo: Joshua Franzos

I used to love vintage and second hand shopping. But when I started my closet overhauling a couple years ago, I found that vintage shopping or thrifting weren't good for my closet. 
I used to go to Goodwill and spend hours sorting through stuff until I found a "treasure." Then I'd buy it, whether I needed it or not, whether it went with anything I already owned or not. Finding a cheap "treasure" in a sea of cast-offs fired off some pleasurable dopamine process in my brain but it also came down to me buying the "treasure" simply because of the time I'd invested in looking for it. Stupid, right? Once I realized this and how badly it cluttered my closet and muddied my personal style, I stopped thrifting.ThredUP is second hand clothing, but it's online (and a convenient app) so you can search for things you are looking for/need, instead of searching endlessly through racks only to find a tepidly cool thing you don't need.

photo: Joshua Franzos

I approached thredUP convinced I only needed a handful of tops to zhuzh up my work wardrobe, but I was extremely wary about finding myself back in Closet Clutterville. I really tapped into the filters on thredUP to help me limit my endless wading. I really liked that I could search for clothing by color or material on thredUP, because I have this new-ish policy. I'm seriously limiting my Dry Clean Only clothing purchases, and nothing I buy will be rayon, modal, viscose (et all Rayon aliases) anymore because I cannot stand it when I shrink clothing, and Rayon ALWAYS shrinks. whhhhyyy. I'm also limiting my color palette so more things can be worn with each other. However, being spoiled with free shipping and returns on ASOS, I was not thrilled with thredUP's $1.99 re-stocking fees, so I also downloaded a closet app, used screenshots of any prospective online purchases and things similar to articles of clothing I already own and love, and played around creating outfits for hours (maybe even days at this point) while I was on the treadmill. You know, to make sure whatever I was interested in buying off of thredUp worked with what I already owned. The closet app consumed me like the most thrilling game. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

At first I downloaded the ClosetSpace app, (don't download this, I'll explain later). This app was so user friendly and really made me think about outfits in a weather context. Hot-Warm-Mild-Cool-Frigid and Dry-Rainy-Snowy. I quickly discovered the closet MVPs and the gaping holes. For instance, I learned that I had 35 pairs of shoes, but only one pair of shoes that I'd wear in the rain, which drastically limited my outfit choices. I grew so fascinated by the closet app and what it showed me, that I created a digital facsimile of everything in my possession, just so I could see how it all played (and if it played), or, if I didn't want to take the trouble to upload something into the app (that meant it should be donated.) I added things I was considering buying to see if I should buy it. I began asking myself so many questions whenever I had a tickle to own something cool that I saw, but mostly it always came down to these two questions: Does it go with anything I currently own? How many other ways can this be worn? -- I wanted everything in my closet to be loved and used and in circulation. Turns out I needed to "zhuhz" a lot more than I thought, alot more than a handful of new tops anyway. I also needed to get rid of the stuff that didn't work with much and buy more shoes that could be worn in the rain. Once I started posting my daily outfits on my Instagram stories, in part to share, but also in part to keep me accountable to this personal style project, I became hooked. Not only did I get great feedback on Instagram and from my  real life friends, acquaintances, colleagues (and certainly my husband), but I could also see myself beginning to grasp a unique personal style through this documentation process. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

Then the unthinkable happened. The ClosetSpace app stoppped working. It had become my daily ritual on the treadmill, to create or re-work outfits for the variety of weather Pittsburgh was throwing at us. I reached out to the app makers for support and heard nothing. I could see outfits I'd already created, but I couldn't make any more. And I needed to make so many more. I could not do it without this app. The thought of living without it brought me to tears. So I did the unthinkable. I bought The StyleBook app (another closet app) and re-created my digital closet ALL OVER AGAIN. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

As if it wasn't enough to do it once. Ugh. you guys. I was some kind of combination of crazy, motivated, and bored on that treadmill. I have to say there was more of a learning curve with Stylebook, but I basically kept the same weather centric outfit categories that helped me so much from the other app (the app that betrayed me). So in summation, getting dressed in the morning is a breeze, I haven't re-worn the same outfit twice all spring, summer, and now...fall...goddammit. I'm also happy to report that I've walked myself fit, walked myself recovered from my back injuries, and I daresay walked myself into a much more stylish me. The most unbelievable result out of all of this is I don't feel the need or desire to shop. I'm happy and content with my closet and myself right now. It's such a weird feeling that I've never before experienced. I hope it lasts as the weather changes, but if it doesn't, I know I'll be stopping at thredUP first. Thursday was the last 90 degree day we'll have in Pittsburgh for awhile. It's finally cooling off. Now please excuse me while I go throw a temper tantrum. It's tradition after all. 

 What I Wore: 

Hat: Jack & Lucy (defunct brand) bought on thredUP

Whiskey Muscle shirt: Express, old sorry!

Jeans: Citizens of Humanity, via thredUP

Platform sandals: Gap, via thredUP

Bag: vintage Carlos Falchi via The RealReal

Cuff bracelet: Chanel, gift from my sister-in-law

Sunnies: Chanel, "half-tint" as made famous by the Olsen twins. Scored on eBay for a bargain.

P.S. Here's a link to a personal style interview I did with Christina Imberlina, of Style by Christina.

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

 

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How to Rock Out a Swimsuit in The Hamptons, Part III

photo: Joshua Franzos

"Laidback, with my mind on my money, and my money on my mind." - Snoop Dogg

I'm with Snoop. Money has been on my mind lately. Especially while vacationing in the land of conspicuous wealth, a.k.a the Hamptons, but since then even. I've been investing in myself this summer because I'm really on a roll with honing my personal style. It's something I've plunged myself into to distract myself from the disappointment we've experienced with infertility. A small part of me worries I'm subconsciously attempting to fill a hole that can't be filled, but most of me is absolutely empowered by the heavily calculated changes and additions I've made to my closet (I'll go into how I'm doing this in more depth in different post). I honestly believe I'm self actualizing through the power of clothing, but there's always a side of the usual female guilt that comes with doing anything for yourself that might be perceived as extravagant. Or something like that. Insert your favorite triggering word here.There's always something that wants to hold you back (and it's usually ourselves.) So I've been inner battling this entire summer, torn between my own desire for a happier, whole self and disgust with my own consumption.This convenient, cheap, disposable culture we live and participate in only compounds it all. To mainstream shop and consume is all the things: alluring, horrifying, and unsustainable. Which on one hand, has only solidified my resolve to nail down my personal style and mostly excuse myself from the wasteful fashion cycle, and on the other hand is inspiring me to use and treasure what I already have, treat it well, and repair and maintain those things. Now that I love every single article in my closet, I'm more inspired to do it. I've been to the tailor three times this season. I have a pile of shoes for my favorite cobbler. I got a shoe shine kit last week and I've already polished a pair of boots. I will have to keep buying shirts with some regularity, due to some sharp elbows of mine, but instead of going directly to new retailers, I've been looking at second hand first and making far more pre-loved purchases these days. Which, I have to point out, really makes money go farther when you're on said mission to make your "new you" wardrobe fully operational. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

I wasn't always a fan of second hand. Certainly not as a kid. I was such a little snot-nosed brat. I'd often complain that I had nothing to wear when I was growing up, in the hopes that my mother would take me shopping. Especially at this store called Clothes Time! which had some really zany and on trend 80's print jumpsuits with padded shoulders. It was thrilling for me when my mother treated me to something brand new. My pleas for having nothing to wear often worked when we lived in California. Growing children grow out of clothes at an alarming rate after all. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

When my family moved to Seattle in 1989, things changed. My father was starting a freelance Industrial Design business and my mother, a registered nurse, was often the only paycheck (judging by my father's daily habit of looking at the Want-Ads.)Then one day my mother was helping a patient into bed and herniated a disc. My mother became the patient. She was bed-ridden for six months which meant zero paychecks. We were plunged into poverty. As a 10 year old, I didn't have to do much about it, other than watch the worry creases deepen on my parent's faces.They made sure we were fed and had a roof over our heads, but I'll never forget one thing they asked of me, get the free lunch at school. I said I would, but that was before I knew what that entailed. There was a special line to stand in, it got to go after all the paying hot lunches were served. There was often only one or two kids in it, or none. The free lunch line was absolutely an 11th finger; it stood out. If the cafeteria ran out of hot lunch, you'd get called into the kitchen and one cook would grab the 5 gallon vat of generic peanut butter off the shelf while the other would lay a piece of white bread directly on her meaty hand and scrape some peanut butter and concord grape jelly onto it. Then you were given a box of milk and sent on your way. So I'd sheepishly stand in the free lunch line, waiting for my turn at a hot lunch, (maybe.) But sometimes I couldn't bear the stigma and the stares from my classmates. So later on, it was quite often that I'd skip lunch, especially once I learned that the churlish lunch lady really liked to rub my face in it. 

"Heh?" she'd say, holding a hand to her ear (an ear which had all sorts of thick, white hairs sticking out of it like pin cushion, her chin too) when I'd squeakily mutter, "free lunch please." 

"What's that MISSY? What kind of lunch?" she'd demand with a malicious grin, forcing me to bellow, "FREE LUNCH PLEASE!" 

The kids I was trying to become friends with would ask me why I would wait in a different line and yell "free lunch" once we made it back to the classroom. I'd shrug my shoulders and hang my head in shame, and push my tray away uneaten. I think I had my first panic attack at age 10. They started at school. Then they started following me whenever we went to church for some reason. I lost weight that year, so my clothes lasted longer than usual (width wise), but length wise, not so much.There's a picture of me at some kind of car museum around that time, waving to the camera. I'm tiny and my limbs are gangly. I'm positively swimming in a hand-me-down red hoodie, but my ankles and calves are exposed because my legs were too long for my green sweatpants, but those were also very baggy. My scuffed white sneakers are definitely more brown than they are white. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

In revisiting these memories as an adult who has worked in the non-profit world for nearly seven years now, I believe we became recipients of some kind of "Adopt-a-Family" program for Christmas that year, but as a ten year old, I didn't know about any of that. I just knew there was no way my parents could afford to buy my sister and me American Girl Dolls, but still they came on Christmas morning. In wrapping paper I'd never seen before. With gift labels that didn't have Santa's regular handwriting. My belief in Santa Claus was starting to wane by 1990, but in receiving an American Girl doll when we couldn't even afford a Christmas tree that year, well, that bought Santa Claus a few more years of belief. I'm not proud to say I believed in Santa til age 12, but hey that's what poverty, even just a prolonged taste of it, will do to you. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

1990 was not a good year for any of us, especially my mother. She was in a new city, no friends, in bad health and unable to work, her father dying was the cherry on top of it all. Only she was able to fly back to California for the funeral, probably on her mother's dime. I noticed that when she came back there was an old, unfamiliar suitcase with her and inside it was a daisy printed vinyl bag full of old clothes that were hopelessly out of style. These were intended for me. She'd pillaged her mother's closets for clothing to put on her growing daughter, but her daughter wasn't interested. There was simply no way I was going to wear a pair of rust brown corduroy overalls with massive bell bottoms. There was simply no way I was going to wear a blouse with a Peter Pan collar the size of a Rubenesque woman's bra. I eventually stopped complaining about having nothing to wear so she'd stop dragging the vinyl bag out from under her bed. But eventually it became dire and I agreed to *try* some things on from the vinyl bag. But deep down, all I wanted was to look like a Fly Girl and wear neon scrunchies and shiny spandex bike shorts. The bag didn't have anything neon or spandex. I picked the only non-rust colored things out: a blue and white striped shirt. It was a stretchy v-neck, 3/4 sleeves, and almost form-fitting. Michelle Pfeiffer or Linda Carter probably wore something like it in the 70's with a pair of high-waisted flares. I paired it with a white skort with a paper bag waist and shuffled out of my bedroom to show my parents. My Dad pointed at my twiggy legs in the voluminous skort and laughed. Something about toothpicks in a barrel was mentioned. My mother clasped her hands together and said, "I think she looks great. She looks like a rich person in that striped shirt!"  I think I scream-cried at them, "We're poor and I'm wearing a barrel like poor people do in cartoons! I hate that we're poor!" I then ran away, slammed my door, and proceeded to throw myself on my bed in a dramatic sobbing emotional maelstrom. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

After the barrel skort meltdown, my father took me to a thrift store to pick out some things better suited to my tastes than the stuff my mother dragged home, but I wasn't having it. Thrift stores were for poor people and I was clinging to some batty Frances Hodgson Burnett fantasy that I was really a princess in disguise. I wasn't really a poor people. (My poor Dad.) I semi-remember seeing the twinkle of a gold lame floral dress amongst a river of jewel toned silk gowns that in my head now, vividly look vintage and designer and like they were rolled directly out of Talitha Getty's closet. But all I would stubbornly have anything to do with was a pair of Nike baseball cleats because my Dad said I had to pick out something I needed and most of the kids on the softball team I'd joined were making fun of me for being the only one without baseball cleats. Listen, if I could get back in a time machine and hit up that untapped Seattle thrift shop, I would. I would. i would. I would, I WOULD. I'd make it rain in there, then I'd start my own vintage shop. Those were the days when AMAZING vintage stuff could still be found in thrift stores. I eventually learned my Greatest Generation mentality, "a penny saved is a penny earned" or its sister statement, "waste not, want not" from being poor. It was a slowly dawning realization once my over-imaginative (delusional?) little girl ego shook free of it's naive husk.  

photo: Joshua Franzos

While I am not poor, I also know from hanging out in the Hamptons and in driving by the homes on "Billionaire's Row" in East Hampton, I am also certainly not rich. But even if I were to magically become one of the 1%. I'd still have this niggling pessimistic insecurity in the back of my brain that everything could change in the blink of an eye. By 1991 my Dad accepted a job that took us out of Washington state, and lifted us out of poverty. The only problem was he was a creative at a major company that was constantly being bought and sold. Creatives are the first to get the axe when new management rolls in, so the threat of joblessness and poverty was always in the back of my mind, giving me anxiety, killing my pleasure in the present. 

I heard something crazy on NPR once. The scars of childhood poverty show up on adult brain scans. “Early experiences of poverty become embedded in the brain. Exposure to chronic stress in early childhood – when the amygdala and prefrontal cortex are rapidly developing – produces lasting neurological changes,” says Cornell’s Gary W. Evans, the Elizabeth Lee Vincent Professor of Human Ecology on the results of his 15 year study. Even if the adults are no longer impoverished, the scar of poverty often comes back to haunt the individual in the form of depression, anxiety disorders, and other post traumatic stress disorders. I'm an anxious person. Is this a scar on my brain, or a learned behavior double safety? Are you sure? You're sure? For sure, sure? On a scale of one to sure, how sure? There is always something to wring my hands over. Am I living life to the fullest? Will I ever get to England or Paris? Will there be enough food for our dinner party? Will there be enough time to get everything done? Since we won't have children to care for us, will there be enough retirement to keep us out of one of those deplorable state geriatric homes? 
Am I enough? 

I never ever forgot that my mother said stripes made me look like a rich person that day. And to this day, I can't shake it. Stripes still look moneyed to me. From a classic black and white striped cabana tent on the beach to a seersucker anything, I can feel my pupils dilating whenever I spot them. I'd probably wear some form of a Breton stripe shirt every single day if I could get away with it. I don't know what this says about me, maybe it's like a talisman against future poverty, but don't judge me to harshly. My brain's scarred. You wouldn't hit a gal with brain scars would you?


How do you balance the YOLO sprints and the marathon of life? How do you manage female guilt? Asking for a friend.

photo: Joshua Franzos

What I Wore:

Swimsuit: past season J.Crew. Similar from Amazon, here.

Scarf: Alexander McQueen, here.

Sunnies: past season Chanel. There are some $9.99 tortoise knock-offs on Amazon, here.

Bag: French Market Bag from Amazon, here. Great for beach and the farmer's market.

Beach towel: from Amazon here or here. 

SPF: Supergoop! Sun-Defying Sunscreen Oil with Meadowfoam SPF50, on Amazon, here. Learned about this from a blogger friend, Terra of Love Nothing More, when I admired the pretty sheen of her skin in one of her photos. Turns out you can have pretty, dewy, sheeny skin AND protect yourself from the sun. Also, have been putting this, Supergoop! Unseen Sunscreen stuff on my face this summer and it doesn't make my hyper sensitive eyes water.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh, 

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