The first draft of the images are below, as are my definition of “Casual Glamour” and the email I sent out the next day. 30 is off to a great start.
Look ferocious. Wear something you’d feel good being photographed in and looking at yourself years from now when I hang pictures of you on my wall.
Some suggestions: Jeans and cowboy boots and leopard print and red lipstick; t-shirts with blazers and Chucks; winged eyeliner and leather jackets; black jeans and old t-shirts and lots of attitude; button-down shirts that don’t make you look like you live in Murray Hill; argyle, but make it fashion; Dad(dy) cardigans; Pashminas. For. Days. and pearls if you want ‘em; sneakers you’ll never exercise in; a come hither stare with eyes that scream you don’t give two fucks about paying your rent.
For example: Cher Horowitz goes shopping, 1995. Kate Moss at the airport all the goddamn time. Faye Dunaway having breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel pool the morning after winning her Oscar, 1977. James Harden all the goddamn time. Steve McQueen on a Triumph motorcycle, 1968. Not waiting in line at Area. Like you’re Born to Run.
But for the love of God, please no athleisure. You KNOW how I feel about it and it is my 30TH BIRTHDAY for crying out loud so just suck it up FOR ONE NIGHT and PUT ON SOME REAL PANTS.
Also, please avoid very thin horizontal stripes--they show up wonky on digital cameras.
Thank you again for spending my birthday with me, for being on board with all the wildness I threw at you; for indulging my extra-osity; posing like a boss; eating, laughing, and being merry; being the most amazing group of hot nerds a gal could be proud to call her friends.
This morning I awoke at 5:45 am with both an "Oooooof" and my pajamas on backwards, stumbling to the bathroom to pop Advil into my body. I initially reached for a single pill but in my 30-year-old wisdom, I chided myself. "What, just one? How about three." I awoke healed and promptly crept to the kitchen to eat leftover chicken wings then try a spoonful of the cake that somehow made it back to my apartment in one piece. I must have dropped some frosting on the floor and stepped in it because soon I was leaving frosting footprints in my kitchen. Here's to this new decade, to ever-increasing sophistication, and fabulous people to share it with.
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