Covetworthy

It’s no new news that President Obama and the First Lady were named to Vanity Fair’s International Best Dressed List. So let me step out on a little limb here. Miss Michelle deserved it. Him? Eh.

Lest you add me to his growing list of haters, I assure that I am not. I’m an early supporter, financial and otherwise. I stumped for him. A “Yes We Can”-uttering, clever-campaign-tshirts-buying, Change-We-Can-Believe-In-cotton-totebag-carrying devotee. I find his brand of leadership as refreshing as mint lemonade. I just can’t say that I find him particularly *well-dressed.*

Exhibit A.
His standard navy suit + white shirt + patriotically hued neckwear + flag pin uniform.
Me: Yawn.

Exhibit B.
His vacation look.
Me: No words, just brows furrowed in concern.

You can fill that big silence there with me shaking my head. If I had magic powers for one day, erasing the above image of him in those belted joints would damn near be my first order of business. (Do I spy a crease?!? Lord, help us all.)

You see, what VF failed to pinpoint is what really landed him on that list. There’s no je ne sais quoi about it – I know exactly what it is. In a word, it’s his swagger. His confidence, his comfort in his own skin, his ability to be all that and encourage others to do the same.

But isn’t there more to it than that? What makes swagger so covetworthy is how it manages to be exceedingly prevalent, yet it’s a rare find. It’s like this: the hot handbag of the moment is out there for anyone to carry, but not just anyone can carry it off. For Mr. Obama, he seemed to summon up every positive and powerful attribute within himself at just the precise moment in history. And he made it look effortless. That is swagger. More importantly, that’s swagger that matters.

So…how should we define it? Does everyone have it but many know not how to tap it? Starting in October, I’m launching a month-long series on the topic of swagger. I want to explore the following:

Defining the undefinable – what it is, and what it’s not
The main players with swagger: who’s got it, who’s getting it, whose is swag-gone for good
Why it matters so much and when it matters most
Can it be faked, boosted, bettered?

Lastly, I strive to develop a list of the top people, places, products and concepts with it. A SWAGGER HALL OF FAME, if you will. Your input on this is encouraged, for this list will not be just for me, but for all of us to reference, to enjoy, and from which to seek inspiration.

Who’s with me?
SWK xxoo

It’s September 15 and I have finally gotten through all my September fashion mags. Heav. Ennnn. Advertising dollars are down so I expected them to be a little SlimFast this year. (Like the Sunday NY Times, which is damn near as skinny as US Weekly right now.) But to my joy and surprise, they were as swollen and voluptuous as ever, all the better for me to dive into one of my favorite autumn pasttimes!

See, I have this ritual. I stack all the magazines in order of reverse relevance. The top of this pile is the least of the bunch, the non-essentials, the take ‘ems or leave ‘ems. Kind of like the step-cousins you get seated next to at weddings. They offer mild amusement at best, but no substance. Once seen, quickly forgotten, never again referenced. Sorry, People Style Watch, that means YOU. (And, ummm, how did you get my address in the first place?)

Next up are the Fluffy but Fabulous mags, like a gaggle of giggly cousins that are always available for a good laugh and a good dish. Lucky, you make me nostalgic for when I spent Saturdays flitting from shop to shop and every nail hut, bookstore and Tasti D-Lite in between. Ah, InStyle, the hours I spent pilfering those sticky tabs from Lucky to adorn your pages. And, W, all rich bitch and insidery, bragging about your polo matches and Hamptons weekends. What-evah. I still love you, even though you try just a little too hard to make me like you.

Then the ubercool Big Sisters, the ones that serve up you-need-to-know-this journalism with you-know-you-want-this photo spreads. Essence. Vanity Fair. And I’m forgetting one… Oh, O.

And at long last, after I’ve devoured and tabbed and dog-eared and discarded, I have finally, blissfully, reached the bottom of the heap, which is actually the creme de la creme. Vogue, the well-meaning (and original Mean Girl) grand dame who sits so high and deigns to look so low. She doles out her advice, her suggestions, her proclamations, and yes, her withering disapproval. My loyalty to Vogue is rooted in tradition: I kiss La Dona’s ring because I always have. Sitting at her side are Elle and Harper’s BAZAAR, the benevolent favorite aunties to whom I am wholly besotted. They take Mama Vogue’s hardness and soften her edges, dispensing trade secrets with nods and winks, tongues firmly planted in cheeks; all the while, expecting, encouraging me even, to use my inner compass and direct my own style path.

I know this post probably bores the patterned leggings off some of you, and I’m fine with that. I’m too engrossed with the family to notice.

It’s not about the price of the dress. When you amortize (yes, children, that does say amortize) the cost over number of wears, that’s when you get the real value. And while I’ve used this formula many times to justify purchases in a price range way north of reasonable, it is with particular joy that I can do so with an item that needs no such vindication.

I have happily happened upon the Rachel Rachel Roy collection. I Besot You. Really.

Well done, Miss Roy, well done.

Let me describe what I love about the line: I’m thinking of every little cute dress / funky top / distressed pair of jeans / boyfriend blazer / jumpsuit / studded piece / younameit I’m feeling this fall.  Now I’m thinking of it available in sizes beyond 0, 2, 4. Now I’m thinking of it for less than HALF what I imagined. And finally I’m thinking, where the hell’s my Visa?

I find a new favorite every time I look at the site – and since most of the pieces aren’t available for another month, looking’s all I can do for now. Come October and the falling leaves, I want to ROCK this Transfourmer Coat in all four of its glorious manifestations – long coat, cropped jacket, cropped vest, long vest. And there’s a cross front LBD that also does double duty. I envision myself swathed in it by day with gladiators and aviators, by night with studs and Sergio Rossis.

See for yourself by clicking here, or by visiting Macys.com.

I had a fantastic dinner a while back that ended with the host showing us his latest purchase: a Ferrari. I’m no car girl but I had to admit it was breathtaking. (And what I do know is Husband looked at, and subsequently rubbed on, said vehicle in a way that made me avert my eyes.) A girlfriend there asked, so what’s the equivalent of a dream car for us? The dream closet. I readily agree.

Think about the parallels. The currency of the dream closet is not horsepower, but square footage. No need for speed here–I want space, preferably something with double zeros at the end. Oh, and I’ll take climate control over cruise control any day.

To me, the real value in the dream car or closet is being able to live out the Fantasy. It’s what offered behind the wheel, behind the door, albeit briefly. In my dream closet, all my once and future purchases reside, those items to adorn me while I fulfill every dream I ever had for myself. That book I’ve yet to write? Still a loose outline, but here’s the D&G skinny suit I’m wearing to the launch party. And while I patiently await that CFDA Awards invitation, I already chose my Choos.

I’ve been in this mode for a long time. Before “The Secret.” Before manifesting anything, I have been a firm believer in “in order to be it, you gotta see it.” So much of that Fantasy life is rooted in my Realife, just with more fantastical settings and ripped-from-the-headlines personalities mingling alongside my Real friends. Example? A quick grab-and-dash at Quizno’s becomes brunch with the girls at Cipriani’s, and by girlfriends, I mean my college bfs plus Diane von Furstenberg, Ms. O and Mrs. O.

Simply put, the dream closet serves a vital purpose in my life. It begets more dreams. I am limitless there. I’m never someone else, I’m always me, just more sure-footed and secure in all those fabulous threads. And sometimes, just sometimes, those outfits step out of my imagination and inspire ensembles that make appearances in my reality. And I’m the only one who knows they first started as a dream.

Surely, I’m not the only girl living the dream. Have you ever made the dream attire a reality? Share your story here. Names and identifying details will be altered to protect the innocent (most likely from 1980s fashion crimes…)