Friday: green and white Prada skimmers

The worst part of traveling? Unpacking when you come back. The second worst? Packing.

For me at least, packing is this angst-ridden exercise, because while there are many known factors — how many days you’ll be gone (so you pack that number of pairs of underwear, plus two to be safe), what activities you have planned (and the shoes required) — there are far too many unknown factors. Like weather abnormalities (yes, I have been rained on in L.A.), unplanned activities, cobblestone casualties, my own general fickleness…

And so my OCD takes over, and I am compelled to create a wardrobe spreadsheet for my trips. When I went to, say, Paris fashion week, which required much planning in terms of what designer to wear to what show, the spreadsheet could go on for pages. For each day, I would have to plan out each outfit, down to the underwear and jewelry (and sometimes perfume). For less stressful trips, I still find myself knee-deep in Excel, trying to foresee every possible fashion moment I may decide to have.

Needless to say, I am the queen of overpacking — and yet… and yet… there have been far too many times when I’ve found myself in a strange city, pounding the pavement looking for a Neiman’s where I could solve my fashion emergency. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all subconscious: I purposefully forget to pack something, just to have an excuse to shop. As if I need an excuse to shop.

Which means that my closet is full of souvenirs from my travels: that other, other pair of black Louboutins that I picked up in San Francisco, because I left the other pair at home. The black turtleneck I really needed because Paris in the springtime was colder than I remembered. The red La Perla bra from D.C. because I forgot to pack appropriate foundation for the evening dress slated to go with the silver Prada heels… and on and on. I gotta admit, though, these souvenirs are way cooler than those snow globes I collected as a kid…

Wednesday: Louboutin tan mules

My senior year in college, there was this guy I kinda knew — he briefly dated one of my roommates (okay, hooked up with, which meant that we were two ships that occasionally passed in the bathroom in the night). He was from Texas, too, but was more of an oil-money good ol’ boy, the kind who surely cut his teeth as a cotillion escort back in high school. For some reason, on one of those occasional passes in the night, he got a glimpse of my closet… and promptly concluded that I must have been just like those debutantes he knew back home. Mind you, those were the days before gainful employment and high credit card limits, so while my collection may have boasted quantity — that’s just a given — it didn’t necessarily boast quality. The crown jewel was a pair of navy blue Escada peeptoes with white stitching, and as I recall fondly, gold lining. Ah, those humble days…

Long story short, one day in the spring semester, my roommate mentioned in front of him that I was up for Phi Beta Kappa. And his jaw literally dropped. When I feigned indignation he tried to backtrack, cover up, get his foot out of his mouth. “I just meant… I had no idea… I mean, of course you must be smart… but all I knew was that you liked to shop, a lot…”

And that was my first experience with prejudice.

And the beginning of my personal mantra, “smart and shallow… smart and shallow… smart and shallow…” Om.

Truth be told, having been pegged for most of my life as Miss Smarty Pants, I was secretly flattered to be judged so superficially. (Yes, that is messed up.) And yet it is one of my great disappointments in life that I never did make Phi Beta Kappa. But I do have an honorary doctorate in power shopping! (Really, I do. You can get anything on the internet… Okay, really, I don’t. But I do know someone who has a bachelor’s degree in fashion merchandising. Now that’s what I can a liberal art!)

Monday: Prada crocodile heels

I have a friend, a former beauty editor, who loves to shop at H&M — she’s obsessed with buying their utterly disposable, trendy-for-a-minute, fifty-for-the-price-of-one-Prada pieces.

But she’d never be caught dead in anything less than Manolos.

And I think I’m coming around to her thinking. Maybe my lows aren’t quite as low (though my highs are admittedly up there), but for the past few months, I’ve become obsessed with J. Crew. Yes, J. Crew! Once just one step up from L.L. Bean, embroidered animals on plaid and all, the chain has undergone a complete design makeover.

Today, for instance, I’m wearing a navy cotton knit shell ($38) and sequined linen circle skirt (on sale for $39.99) from “J to the C” (as another devotee I know calls it)… with my $900 crocodile Pradas.

Seriously, for the price of those Pradas, I could probably buy a whole fall wardrobe at J. Crew. Actually, I’m going to attempt this Price Is Right exercise now.

Herringbone skirt: $98

Merino wool V neck sweater: $58

Belted sweater jacket: $198

Pink floral silk tank: $78

Phew, still only $432 — not even half way there!

Cable cardigan: $98

Stretch cords: $78

Cuffed wool trousers: $148

Silk tunic top: $128

Eight easy pieces… and I’m still 16 bucks under $900. (There are, I should point out, some “premium” items at J. Crew — the fancy imported, and I don’t mean from Macau, laces and such — but you just don’t go there to buy anything over 200 bucks, even if you’d pay twice as much for a similar item elsewhere. That just seems to run counter to the whole point of the place.) So what if I wear them only one season (or, for that matter, one month)? I think the only problem is forgetting that inexpensive items purchased in high volume adds up — just not as fast. And, I must confess, it doesn’t mean that I’m not still planning to buy the high-ticket items too. Call me greedy! But (to misquote Owen Wilson in Meet the Parents) if it’s good enough for J to the C, it’s good enough for me!

Friday: Prada geometric print mules

You can’t start too young. When I had brunch recently with my friends Chandra and Jeff and their 10-month-old daughter Jacqueline, Chandra mentioned that Jacqueline had just gotten her first pair of shoes, a gift from another friend.

Now, you might wonder, what kind of friend was I? You would think — quite reasonably — that I would have been the one to give Jacqueline her first pair of shoes. What happened? Well, I confess, I have no real good reason. Because Prada doesn’t make shoes small enough?

Lame excuses aside, if I have any hopes of being her shoe godmother (as I was to my own niece, and many friends’ little girls since then) I have some catching up to do. Because take a look at Jacqueline’s brand-new shoes:

And these are her first shoes! The first pair of shoes I remember was probably the black patent leather Mary Janes I had when I was 3. I have pictures of myself wearing them with both some very groovy burgundy pin-striped velvet overalls (this was the ’70s!) and a very girly long calico dress with green Peter Pan collar. Both outfits, I should add, were worn with panache.

But as cute as those Mary Janes were, they were pretty old-school conservative. Jacqueline’s already far ahead of the young me. Just imagine how I might be now had my mother let me wear a leopard-skin print at such a tender age. Wait, can I get any worse? Uh oh. Chandra, consider yourself warned!

Link

In this age of waiting lists and rationing — sure, the Russian look is in for fall, but what is this, the Soviet Union? — making your buying decisions every season has become a contact sport… as well as an exercise in statistical analysis. To wit: When the store racks are merely filled with first shipments, you have to think fast. (Clearly, most of the stuff you’ll be buying at last call shouldn’t even be on your radar at this point. Don’t let them distract you from the task at hand.) Which items do you commit to immediately, buy right on the spot, while it’s still in stock in your size? And which ones do you figure, based on your knowledge of past performances, will still be hanging around at the mid-season sale? Don’t be glib. Study the history of shopping. Get some exercise and take your vitamins.

When you miscalculate your odds, you end up feeling the pain of seeing your Prada crocodile-trimmed straw wedges, purchased well before the temperature rose above 55, sitting on the sale rack in July. Children, learn from my mistakes and start cramming now! Before even venturing into Neiman’s, make your list and check it twice! Need I remind you that your whole fall wardrobe is at stake here?