I just stayed at a five-star resort for a couple of days by myself last week, just a little recharge. (Because everyone knows that when Mama’s happy, everybody’s happy.) And while it was luxurious to be sure, the things I enjoyed the most were all things I could replicate at home.
So as excited as I was about launching this series on Swagger, I haven’t been able to post to it. A strange, unforeseeable, unbelievable event has happened to a dear friend and has completely taken me off my Covetworthy game. In fact, it’s rocked me to my core.
This person is not just a dear friend, but a dear sisterfriend, someone that I have known for almost 15 years. And to me, true friendship years are like dog years. So that’s enough giggles, gaffes, men, mishaps, career changes, cocktails, crushes, breakups, breakdowns and breakthroughs to fill 105 trips around the sun.
And so it’s with this on my heart and in my mind that I submit the first item for my Swagger Hall of Fame: being and having a Real Friend. (And you thought this was going to be just about Daniel Craig, hot bags and cool shoes…)
So do a quick inventory. If you’ve got one Real Friend, you’re blessed. If you’ve got more than one, cherish that, protect that, celebrate that. Right now. It could be gone or irrevocably altered in the blink of the eye.
So, for the first post in this series on Swagger, let’s start with the definition.
Swagger (SWAG-uhr): Noun.
It’s a FEELING: the ability to remain above it all, focused. Keeping your head about you when all else is going to hell in a handbag. It’s believing and acting like the chaos dumped at your heels was your stepping stone to a greater and higher place.
It’s a FORM OF CURRENCY: yet unlike most monetary units, it isn’t subject to the peaks and valleys, whims and whimsies of the global marketplace. You can’t buy with it, but it can buy you lots…respect, loyalty, and power, to name a few. At home and in the home. Abroad, as a broad, among the broads.
It’s a POWER POSITION: the corner office of cool. That DESIRED place we all strive for. It’s knowing what you’re worth and commanding full price, down to the last penny, pound or Euro.
It’s a CONSCIOUSNESS: Being fully aware of where you stand, who you stand with, who you can’t stand and what you won’t stand for.
It’s a MYSTIQUE: Choosing when, where, what and how many secrets to share. Chicks with swagger manage their magic well. They may live their lives as an open book, but they keep the juiciest parts password-protected.
It’s a LOOK: Ultimate comfort in one’s one skin, whether that skin is faux or fur, nude-colored or au naturale. You’re aware that fashion’s favorite new hue is violet, but when you rock it, rest assured that the word “shrinking” never enters anyone’s mind.
It’s a SKILL: It’s being bold enough to step up to the plate, to admit one’s missteps, and most importantly, to step aside when the situation requires.
So now you know why it’s covetworthy.
Know someone with swagger? Share this with them.
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.