Living a stone's throw from the Theater District (and, judging by the recent influx of barely legal stunners roaming my block, some sort of model housing) I'm often blown away by the sheer gorgeousness of the inhabitants of this city. There was once a time when I cared about what I wore. Scratch that. There was a time when I had disposable income to care about what I wore. I'm pretty sure I even had something resembling A Look. But guess what? Looks are time consuming. Looks require patience and attention to detail and really cute tights. None of which I have. You know what I do have? Clogs. Which might be why I get a little itchy whenever I read this one particular column in the New York Times. Don't get me wrong, I love the Grey Lady. I also love voyeurism and minutia, so a column called "What I Wore," wherein famous people describe - wait for it - what they wore during a given week, seems like a tasty treat. So why do I want to punch it in the face?
I mean, I get it. Celebrities are different than you and me! They go to the library in Chloe pants and Prada shoes! But no matter how adorable and self-effacing you are, actress Lake Bell, anyone who does anything in a "Carven chartreuse mohair oversize vest" earns my misplaced scorn.
But since I have yet to meet a chance to talk about myself that I didn't like, herein is my week's "What I Wore." Scratch that. I don't have time to chronicle my weekly wardrobe. I've got Play-Doh to dig out of the rug. Here is today's "What I Wore." Multiply it by seven and you'll have a pretty good idea of what this chick's bringing to the table, style-wise. Think you can handle it?
MONDAY, APRIL 11.
6:04 a.m. My 3-year-old starts his daily yell. I really hope our downstairs neighbor is deaf. I haul myself out of bed in my husband's "Zombies Hate Me Because I Am So Awesome" T-shirt and help the kid to the potty. I pretend that I'm actually going to be able to go back to sleep but instead spend the next 20 minutes fielding questions about a recent episode of Blue's Clues. I cave, throwing on a gray poly-cotton robe from Old Navy, and set to work making the breakfast my son will refuse to eat.
I have an early audition, so I throw on my signature "mom" outfit - the organic cotton Gap jeans with re-patched knees, an olive green and white Old Navy blouse that I dug up at Housing Works topped with a lavender J. Crew cardigan that almost always garners me a callback, and of course the all-important Spanx - while Owen sings along with the TV. I'm sure Joe's great, but my heart belongs to Steve.
After the audition (it went well, thanks) I change into something a little more suited to springtime temps: lightweight Old Navy cargos and a sheerer-than-I-thought gray shirt from Banana. I decide to throw on some wooden bead necklaces from Columbia that a former student gave my husband. Lucky for me, Matt is a decidedly non-necklace guy. The oxblood Dansko clogs make their inevitable appearance because A) they add vital inches to my height, and B) they hide my bunions.
10:07 p.m. Back in one of my husband's T's. Superman this time. The zombies will live to fight another day.
Who doesn't want to read about this, huh? Where's my freakin' feature?