fashion – Juniper and Daisies

The City That Calls to Me

Why is it that everyone wants to write about Paris? That artists, both from Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds to Jay Z, flock to the area? Is it the artistic glamour that is found all over the city? The calm that washes over you as you sit in café, sipping a café au lait, people watching or gazing out into the Seine from your perch on the banks? The awe felt at the dedication to keeping history preserved and integrated into daily life (even if that preservation pays off in millions of tourist dollars pouring in) with their apartments from the 1500’s?

Or, maybe it’s the fashion, the alcohol, the food, the undertones of glitz and glamour in this city. There’s something about Paris: you can be in the dirtiest part town and see someone dressed impeccably well and feel that they are well-read and well-versed in life’s affairs. It’s the idea that anyone can look beautiful in Paris, no matter the budget.

A Parisian woman can save for years to buy her first Chanel bag, channeling an inner beauty with her black cigarette pants, loafers, white blouse, her hair slightly a mess and no make-up (save for maybe a little mascara or a bit of rouge). Her look is simple, most likely cheap (minus that Chanel bag) with a lot of her items bought at the Monoprix down the street, and yet, it’s an iconic look. A look that millions of women all over the world will spend thousands of dollars trying to replicate. But, replicating something pure and beautiful is never possible.

The fashion and understated glamour is an undercurrent running through Paris, but for those who have been there, you know it’s more than that. It’s a decadent lifestyle that seems to take little effort. The tiny, cramped apartments are more than just a funny story to tell friends back home, more than that stereotypical lifestyle that is so prominent in movies. It’s part of the yearning for something more than just material, more than large homes and clutter.

Living in a minuscule apartment while owning Louis Vuitton, Dior, or Chanel is something of a Parisian right. Spending liberally on high quality items, be them cheeses, chocolates, wines, or clothing is always the right move with Parisians. It’s always the desire that is important, the need for the purest form, the creativity unleashed in every mundane aspect of the city; you’re always dressing for lifestyle in Paris, never for comfort and ease.

The most splendid apartments are large and baroque in their finishings with gilded gold throughout, but they’re not of the monstrous mansions you will find in L.A. or the many-leveled marbled apartments in New York. Even the most decadent things in Paris are simple.

So, that’s it, right? Artists, although they may not all admit it to themselves, love the decadence. Why else would you sit in front of a computer, a notebook, or a typewriter, banging out the ideas in your head? There’s something so egotistical about being a writer, an artist, that it’s nearly comical. We say we hate the spotlight, we’d rather be on the sidelines, and when it comes to showcasing our work we can be as shy as a preschooler on her first day. But, the glamour of life gets to us. The royalties come in, the attention is doted upon us, the drinking until 4am isn’t just to survive anymore – it’s to celebrate.

What is more decadent than putting your thoughts onto any type of medium, bringing a little bit of you, piece by piece, into the spotlight and thrusting it into viewers faces – making them wonder over which character is the true novelist, what part of the painting is the artist, and if that song is the beginning or end of a great love felt by the singer.

When I look out my window I see trees. Trees and the great expanse of a prairie horizon. There is no glitz and glamour out here; instead, I find myself the most attentive to my actions and the most calm and meditative when in nature. There’s something soothing about being amongst living things that have lived for millions of years, surviving each and every type of apocalyptic problem. Growing back after the atrocities and becoming even stronger. The freshness to the air leaves a crisp feeling both inside and out.

But, the sound of the Parisian streets beats in my heart, the laughter, chatter and tinkling of cups and plates in a café coarse through my bloodstream. The city calls to me, to my inner artistic ego. There is a yearning, a strong and faithful plea to come back to the city that makes me feel the most alive. A burning desire, one you can compare to that of missing a lover.

Although I feel far-removed from it all and this is where I’ll stay, the glitz and the glamour, the ability to wear an absolutely breathtaking outfit no matter the time of the day, gets to me. The belief that any type of artistic dream is possible when you are within the city’s borders. The hope is alive, much like for those actors still slinging coffees in the local Starbucks in L.A., clinging to the hope that one day, maybe, they’ll be able to reach the Stars and live amongst them as an equal.

I Might be Ending my Relationship with Heels

For years, I always gravitated towards heels. As someone who is barely 5’4, heels made the world seem brighter — and made me able to reach the higher shelves at work.

I loved heels since I knew how to walk in them in high school. One of my favourite compliments is from a great-aunt who said that I walked well in heels. It made me feel like I had accomplished something other women couldn’t master; people would ask how I could walk in heels without falling over, or hurting themselves. I would smugly joke that I’d just put one foot in front of the other, which was all I was really doing, anyways. Walking in a pair of heels isn’t the atrocity to me like it is to most women, and before my 30s I used to find them comfortable and preferred heels over flats, which hurt my feet. Standing all day, working at a shoe store, of course, in heels didn’t bother me — much. Standing all day in flats? Just as, or a little more, painful.

I’d ooh and aahh over the heels I would never be able to afford. You know the ones: Manolos, Louboutins, Jimmy Choo. I, with my 16-year old naive brain, vowed that I would be wearing at least one of these brand’s shoes by my 30s. Spoiler: I’m 32 and I own none of those and have no plans of buying them anytime soon. I’ve now moved onto lusting over some nice Tod’s. Another shoe I’ll, most likely, never be able to afford.

As I grew up, my rules around footwear became more specific. I refused to wear anything but heels to the bar, stating that I looked like a frumpy mess in flats or converse-style shoes. I’d walk (walk!) to the bar in my heels, dance for hours, then walk (seriously, did I even care about my feet?) home, only to take them off once inside the apartment. Sure, sitting down for a pee felt amazing not just because there’s something so wonderful about peeing while you’re incredibly intoxicated, but because I wouldn’t be standing. When you’re drunk, all thoughts of hovering over a dirty toilet go out the window. I wore ‘comfortable’ heels that would get me through the night, you know, 3–4 inches plus a platform. I must say, the platform does help out a little bit. Although, I don’t think I could make it across my living room in those heels that I now use as bookends.

When I first started my office job, there was no way I was going to go there in anything other than heels. Heels were for business women, powerful females who wore beautiful outfits and commanded a room. Flats were for the lower-downs, the ones who had to walk more often, delivering mail or messages. For the longest time, people thought I was at least 5’6 as I was never seen without heels. Once I started mixing in some flats, the jig was up and I couldn’t pretend I was tall-ish. I climbed the stairs to the office, doing my best to stay skinny and lose weight that I didn’t need to lose in the first place, in my heels, thinking that I was stronger. Besides, what loser would climb the stairs in runners and change into heels at her desk? What — did I think I was on a sitcom?

Fast forward a few years and I’ve still that lovely obsession with heels. They’re just so sleek, gorgeous, absolutely stunning. If only an inch or two tall, they make my feet feel good. They give me the boost of confidence needed to get things done, they still give me that powerful feeling. I’ve stopped wearing my 4-inch heels, mainly because I don’t go out to bars anymore and I’m not a stripper, but I still can’t move as fast as I can in runners, or even flats, even with a short heel. Obviously. Now, instead of shelves of heels gracing my closet, there’s a mix of loafers, oxfords, flats, and adorable runners that are appropriate for work. The shelf of heels grows smaller and smaller every year as I purpose more shoes that give me comfort.

I had always thought I’d wear heels to my wedding; even going so far as to buying a pair of gorgeous pink suede heels with a delicate gold design on the heel. But, they felt too high, too uncomfortable, too much to be wearing for the whole night. Besides, my dress would have to be altered to the length, and then what would happen if I took the heels off? Tripping over my dress at my own wedding was not on the list of things I wanted. Instead, I opted for flat mules: Badgley Mischka, brocade, and covered in jewels, of course, but flats nonetheless.

I still love their design, I still gravitate towards them in any store, yet my feet are sick of being at an angle. My knees are tired of being worn down by tiny stilts attached to my feet. I want comfort, I want support. I’ve stopped caring that I’m a short woman. So what if heels make me seem slimmer? If I’m uncomfortable for most of the day, is that worth it? I’ve finally realized that it isn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever fully break up with my heels, but we are definitely on a break. Just the kind that has you dialing their number at 2:00am, looking for that fix only your ex can scratch.