Slouchy Sunday style blog

Telluride Daily Planet, Sunday, February 4, 2013

After walking around a lot the last few days, I had a lazy morning and wore just black yoga pants and a white T-shirt, kind of slouchy. Finally, I did get dressed for eggs Benedict downstairs and put on black fitted jeans from Aéropostale …. that I rolled up to the ankles and a white, black and blue button-down shirt from Topshop. My shoes were black Burberry wedges with gripping soles that were pretty much made for the snow. — New York Times, January 25

Lazy morning and I’m dead tired, presumably from marching around in my dreams all night wearing Michelle Obama inauguration purple leather gloves from J. Crew, which are way out of stock (only in your dreams!), and a John Deere trucker hat. Plus I was leading a polecat around on a leash – another dead giveaway it was a dream, since I didn’t even know what one was before. It’s like a weasel. An exhausting creature.

My workweek starts at noon on Sundays, but I’m thinking Easy-does-it with locally roasted coffee in bed in my favorite demitasse, the one that says Made in USSR on the bottom. I love its Fabergé blue and antique rose gold diamond/bow pattern, except somehow it always reminds me of Bergman movies or Lara from Doctor Zhivago and their foreign world of patterns and wallpaper that generally leaves me short of breath. Un-color me paisley, please.

So, for going downstairs, I throw on age-appropriate leggings my daughter gave me, which are tight and skinny right down to the feet, and then my San Miguel Power hoodie. Yeah, I’ve always opted for a tiny bit of bad-ass in my morning look. I pull up the sleeves to make it more casual, so that I’m all, like, “Heeeey, I know how to slouch, but I can also get some work done.” And that’s when I think to myself, “This is a timeless look, Michelle, because you’ve been wearing it since you were 13.”

While grinding the dark roast beans, I decide instead of coffee in bed, I’ll vacuum with my Miele Polaris canister vacuum in light blue (with flint gray and matte Mars-black accents).

To vacuum, I slip on my faves, 20-year-old once-cherry-red Converse sneakers with dirty white laces and broken eyelets, and listen to the Wake Up Happy playlist on my white iPhone 4. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that tri-color wish anklet still tied to my left foot. I forget what the wish was except that I was desperate for it to come true. I guess I still am.

The thrumming bass in my ears (Urbanears headphones in tomato) helps me forget everything to do with Zhivago but begs the questions: who am I, stylewise? Halfway up the stairs — ash-blonde oak planks and risers with bullet-proof bright white trim — I take off the hoodie because guess what? Part of the real me is the owl gray and pale persimmon stretch yoga tank with spaghetti straps and this really cute ruching I am sporting underneath. Yay!

At 11:30, as I’m packing my workaday lunch in Gladwrap and Pyrex containers, I notice – I mean really notice — the color of the carrot I’m peeling and wonder if I’ve ever worn orange in my life. Persimmon, yes, but OJ orange? Then all of a sudden I’m, like, having orange explosions in my head, all Gerber daisies and pumpkins and Day-glo vests and Cuties out of the mesh bag. Nope: orange is not for wearing in my world, it’s for looking at. However:

Flank steak bento-box leftovers with a tiny container of horseradish on the side? I take a food-blog-worthy photo, post it to Insta with the hashtag #flankyouverymuch, and then? Then I consider the color palette. Neutrals. A bag-lunch color scheme based on a cold beef sandwich? Freaking brilliant! I have a cashmere sweater in flank-steak brown and skinny straight jeans from Uniqlo in wheat toast. A horseradish linen scarf that says boyish but not too. Gamine maybe, especially when I add the tea-leaf and white striped watch band, my ever-faithful analog Timex. Timely, timeless, and even timelessly timeless. Groovy numerals and the inscrutable second hand.

Check it: boots are my favorite part of dressing. Medium brown shearling to the knee, but I roll them down and then stare for a while, thinking of standard poodles with their puffer feet and I’m all, like, “Aww Yeeeuh.” Delete, delete, delete: so far from age appropriate, my daughter would have my neck.

All I need now is earrings and a little lipstick as I head out the door into this stellar, slouchy, flanken-colored kind of day. Consommé colored clear topaz drops? Burnt orange gloss? Bingo!

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