So the idea that we Canadian folks are supposed to be the tough ones who can handle cold is a myth. Because I have seen British girls out on the town. I walked past a club yesterday, freezing, clad in boots and scarf and full-on coat – and stared at the party girls blithely strolling around in backless tops and microminis. They’re completely impervious, and I fully expected to see Keira Knightley’s collarbones pass me by from beneath a completely unsuitable tank top.
Of course, London shopping is fantastic. Every colour of boot or checkered tight or toeless oxford that you could want is here for the purchasing. And I understand more and more why Gwyneth thinks she’s a style authority along with everything else. You will never, ever find in me the adoration for the GOOP-y Ms. Paltrow that Lainey inexplicably maintains – I think she’s just kind of ordinary and self-important and insufferably boring – but living in London would make you feel, for sure, that you were a style authority.
But there is a void.
A void left by the absence in my life of a pair of overpriced Chanel tights.
They were so beautiful, and so sassy! Apparently someone kindhearted sent a link to some similar ones from Urban Outfitters – but I am sad to say they don’t even compare. First of all, they’re black nylon on the front – the Chanel ones saucily pretend that your legs are just that even and beautifully buff on the front, and that at the back, why – it might be tights – or you might have been indulgent enough to have the backs of your legs painted, just because you could.
Then there’s the detail on the ankle – those little c’s. I hate logos, as a rule, but I love where and what they are. They’re placed on the smallest part of the ankle – a part of your leg that would never be seen unless someone was admiring them very, very closely – someone not merely checking out a pair of gams on your way by, but really spending time on the form and beauty of a woman’s leg. This was Karl’s intention, right?
Does this sound like justification? Because it might be. I’ve always suspected that celebrities who have everything from every designer just sent over, fresh from the collections, treat their Chloe and Balenciaga the way I treat my H & M – into it for a little while, and then not all that concerned if it falls from the desk chair to the floor and your cat steps on it on its way into your sweater drawer, and you start to protest but then just shrug.
But these tights…I would treat them with such reverence because they would treat me the same way. Like all new mothers say they didn’t know love until they had a child, so I feel about these perfect pieces of nylon thread. So is this snobbery, where I should realize a 25 dollar pair would do as well? Or does the fact that they’re haunting me mean they’re worth it? How reasonable does a reasonable facsimile have to be?
As a sidebar, here’s another way we’re unable to shrug off our Canadianness here – staying in the incredibly adorable Haymarket Hotel, we decided to be rock stars and trash the joint. And by that, I mean I spilled some cranberry juice.
So like the good Canadian girls we are, we started to scrub it up. Please note all of us in our nighttime finery, frantically trying to remove the stain.
But Lindsay Lohan would have just stubbed her cigarette into the mess, right? Poured on some bourbon and made a carpet cocktail?
Sigh. We’re apparently completely inept at hotelling the celeb way. Perhaps I can call downstairs and ask for caffeine-free Red Bull.
It’s not like we actually bought the tights. We did NOT buy the tights. Because inevitably we just couldn’t go there. Could not. All we can do is long. I’ve come to realise I actually like longing. Sometimes I wonder if I like longing more than I like having.
But there’s longing and then there’s settling.
Are we horrible people if we don’t settle for the $14 pair at Urban Outfitters?
As for the hotel cranberry incident…
It was 2 in the morning. Michelle looks 7pm just out of the shower gorgeous. I, on the other hand, in the brilliant light of Duana’s camera skills, am modelling the worst wonk eye this side of China. You will note, it’s trying to catch up with its rightful owner two blocks down the street.
On being a snob