Wednesday: brown tweed Prada pumps

What’s the worst part of winter in New York City? Not the dirty snow or the crowded subways or my dry, pasty skin — or even the Michelin man effect of layering. I’d say the worst thing of all is the fact that in spite of your best-laid plans, it’s just too darn hard to dress in this weather. In your overheated apartment in the morning, you dress for the Arctic, then get on a subway where you half expect to see Richard Simmons at the other end of the car ’cause it’s like you’re sweating to the oldies, only to brave the cold in those last blocks on your way to the office. By the time you get to work, you need to take another shower — so you’re all cleaned up just in time to go relive the sweats and chills on the way home.

And it doesn’t matter if you’re living the limousine lifestyle. Case in point, I was driven to an event last week — no straphanging with the hoi polloi for me that night — and though it was warmer than usual for winter (say, upper 40s) I had planned my outfit far in advance, expecting a normal winter day: I’d bought a Prada wool sleeveless dress and an embroidered cashmere Lainey coat just for the occasion, so there would be no veering from that plan. I walked into the party venue, and the greeters immediately directed me to the coat check. Hell, no! There was no way I was going to take off my coat; it was part of the outfit! Everything was fine for a while, but the longer I stayed at the party, the hotter I seemed to get under the collar. (At least my feet were prepared to take the heat — I was in Roger Vivier high-heeled slides, definitely not your traditional winter footwear.) I sweated it out the rest of that evening and it was with great relief when I finally got out into the misty night air. I would’ve walked home if my heels hadn’t been so high! So you know what the next great invention needs to be? Personal climate control to go. At this point, I wouldn’t even mind being the Girl in the Plastic Bubble if it meant I could stay cool doing it. Oh, all right, I’ll give you that: Cool in temperature, yes; cool in vibe — not so much. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that just might be a fair trade-off!

Monday: mauve Prada slingbacks

I have this problem — I get fixated on something and I can’t stop buying every iteration of it. A couple of seasons ago I fell in love with the tweed Prada shoes with the curved metal heels and flower trim, so not only did I buy the pumps in brown but I also picked up the mules in burgundy. Let’s not even talk about my collection of embroidered Laineys… And frankly, every time I buy another Marc Jacobs bag — what with the hardware and the pockets — I feel like I’m repeating myself. And yet I can’t stop.

This year, Groundhog Day is coming a little early. I bought these fabulous dark chocolate brown Bottega Veneta woven-vamp, kiltie slingbacks this fall:

I’ve had to consciously force myself not to wear them all the time — that’s how much I love them. The kilties also came in a pump with a 3 1/2″ heel, which I managed to pass on just because they were so hard to walk in. But now Bottega’s spring collection has a pair of kiltie ballerina flats in that same dark chocolate color (though now deemed “hazelnut” on the Bergdorf’s site) and open-toe slingback kilties (same color but in this description, it’s just called “brown”).

Heaven help me! I am feeling hard-pressed not to buy both styles, even though three pairs of dark brown (however it’s described) kilties is, even for me, a bit excessive.

Luckily, the ballerina flats also come in a tan-white -yellow combo. A bit more colorful than I’m used to, but I think I can pull it off. There’s nothing wrong, really, with being derivative if you’re just being derivative of yourself, right?

Friday: Prada acorn pumps

I’ve never once dated a guy who liked to shop. No, that’s not even accurate. I’ve never once dated a guy who didn’t hate to shop.

How is that possible, you might wonder. How could we even be friends?

Well, let’s start in the beginning. The one guy in high school who paid attention to what I wore, the one I had such a secret crush on, had come out by our ten-year reunion. The guy I did date was more into his band. . . and his car. And wasn’t so smart. The not-shopping thing was merely one of the many reasons why I now wonder how we could have even been friends.

At the beginning of college the boyfriend was a serious, save-the-earth New Englander. Didn’t much appreciate the superficial things in life. My shopping habits during that relationship were so unhealthy: the secret binging, the feigned indifference, the denials (all so easy to sustain because Mr. Serious hardly would’ve noticed a new outfit). It was as if he only knew half of me. And not the fun half either! I’m glad that I’ve grown up and embraced my materialism — or at least that I’m comfortable enough to be honest about (and only a wee bit embarrassed by) it.

Later, there were others — mostly the bored tag-alongers who carried the bags and bought uninspired birthday presents at Victoria’s Secret. (And who hasn’t dated one of those? How could you not when the world is littered with them?)

So why have I never dated the Richard Gere-in-Pretty Woman type of guy? Well, for one thing, I’m not too keen on dating a guy who hires prostitutes, but maybe that’s just me. Aside from that, I also suspect it’s one of those “be careful what you wish for” deals. Do you really, truly, deep in your soul want to be with a guy who shops as much as you do? Who wants to tag along every time you go to Neiman’s? (Come on, some things are sacred!)

And let’s be realistic here: There just wouldn’t be enough closet space in this town for the both of us!

Wednesday: cream ponyskin Bottega Veneta slingbacks

Maybe it’s only appropriate that I’d be obsessed with that vainest member of the animal kingdom. Don’t we all want our clothes to say “Look at me!” sometimes? (Okay, all the time?) And I’m not the only one, of course, because peacocks keep recurring in fashion. Their feathers were everywhere last spring — from the Prada runways to Nicole Kidman’s Gucci gown at the Golden Globes. Then Gwen Stefani put the preening birds on L.A.M.B. hoodies. Now these fabulous Valentino sandals and handbag just popped up on the Bergdorf’s site for spring. Love, love, love. Oh, spring, come soon!

Soooo lovely to look at. But I’m not quite sure if I could see myself wearing the shoes and the bag. In fact, I can see myself buying both and visiting them often in my closet. I have to admit that till now I’m more of a peacock admirer than a peacock wearer. Okay, so maybe I’ve worn the peacock color a few times — but that was the ’80s and it was called “teal.” I do own a few peacock pearls — does that count? And not long ago I picked up a ruby-encrusted gold peacock pendant that I have managed not to just gaze longingly at in my jewelry box. I’m getting there. A little more practicing the primping and preening, that’s all it takes…

Monday: black Prada crocodile slingbacks

Help me father, for I have shopped.

I don’t know how many Hail Marys are in order, or if they would even help a wretch like me. Because I was a bad, bad girl. However, you could say that my trip to the Prada boutique this weekend was a spiritual experience in a way: I did walk out thinking, “Holy shit!”

I had heard and accepted the gospel; how did I lose my way? I was looking for an outfit for an upcoming event, and I told myself that I had to avoid the sales at certain designer boutiques because I knew myself: I knew that I would be so caught up in the moment that I wouldn’t be able to think straight, I wouldn’t be able to resist buying way too much just because it was 50% off. That’s just what happens to me. And while that’s okay at a store like Saks or Neimans, which both have quite reasonable return policies, that doesn’t fly at boutiques where most of the time, sale or not, there are simply no returns.

So there I was in SoHo, walking in the vicinity of the Prada boutique but managing to avoid it. Good girl. Then I zipped up to Saks, where pickings were slim. The new spring merchandise looked lovely, but it’s still barely above freezing in New York, so I was out of luck. Then, as I walked up Fifth Avenue on my way to Bergdorf’s, I suddenly felt pulled toward the west side of the street. I heard it calling out to me. I’m here. I’m waiting for you.

No, I said to myself. Skip the Prada store. Go to Barneys. They carry Prada. They take returns in case you get carried away. It’s not too late. Cross the street. Go!

But it just couldn’t be helped. I saw the lights inside the store and I had to go in. And besides, it was cold. I needed shelter from the cold. Right. Out of the cold and into that dangerous feeding ground of the omnivorous, insatiable Homo shopperiens. Yes, that would be my native land.

There’s just something about the hushed hum of activity, the calming pale-green walls, the clink of the heavy wire hangers against each other as you browse through racks that are stocked just sparsely enough so that you feel like if you don’t buy it now, it’s gonna be gone.

And how was I supposed to fight that? I’m simply not equipped with such self-control. I tried on outfit after outfit, each one more fabulous than the last. And let me tell you, they do something to those mirrors in the dressing room. Those holiday pounds seemed to have disappeared.

The store closed at 6, and still my saleswoman was plying me with more pieces to try on. A few other shoppers were lingering too, and they were just egging me on, telling me how much they loved everything on me. I’m helpless up against that kind of peer pressure. So about half past 6, I walked out into the cold night air with a big shopping bag carrying what turns out to be the first outfit off the fall/winter runway and an amazing jacket like this one but in black –and a Prada hangover like you wouldn’t believe.

So, was I chastened? Full of regret and in need of some alka seltzer?

Nah. You’ve heard of the hair of the dog, haven’t you? ‘Cause you might just have spotted me at Bergdorf’s afterwards looking for a pair of shoes to wear with my new purchases!