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I am French, protesting is a birthright. It’s practically in my DNA. We invented haute couture, mastered the art of complaining, and have never shown the slightest shame in parading our outrage over just about anything through the streets of Paris. But somewhere between the French Revolution and social media, something rather interesting happened. The …

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That evening, I had arranged dinner for six at home to celebrate everyone being back in Miami after the summer. My husband and I take hosting seriously enough to leave the cooking to someone qualified, so Quentin was in the kitchen. I had planned the menu with great care, something simple but spectacular in the details: fresh burrata and vegetable carpa…

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This Paris Fashion Week gave us a lot to talk about, and I am not only referring to the clothes. Between Matthieu Blazy keeping the Chanel obsession alive and Michael Rider writing Celine’s next act, it was quite a show. But the plot twist I did not see coming arrived just after the shows: Anthony Vaccarello handing back the keys to Saint Laurent after a decade. I thought he had tenure. Like that philosophy professor who never leaves the university.

Saint Laurent takes me back to those exaggerated shoulders, the pointed heels, the powerful silhouette. My hotshot in the city days, with feet in excruciating pain. Those days were something, but I was never meant to spend my whole life as la femme Saint Laurent. Perhaps Vaccarello wasn’t either.

I know exactly who the Saint Laurent woman is. There was never any confusion about what Vaccarello’s Saint Laurent stood for, and I admired that conviction: that sartorial authority, that confidence, that sharpness. The clothes are striking, but somewhere along the way, she lost her mystery for me. I knew the mood before I had even seen the collection.

As I made my way towards softer days, she was still giving me the strong shoulder. Sex appeal was always part of her armor. Yes, she can dominate a room with a glance, but is there room for ease in her wardrobe?

Then the great fashion grapevine gave me a name: Chemena Kamali. It’s still a rumor, but I like the sound of it. I’d love to see those familiar codes tell a different story, to recognize Saint Laurent and still be surprised. Perhaps we’re in for the Blazy effect: the same house codes, with a fresh take.

What interests me at Chanel is that I can still recognise the house without feeling I already know what comes next. Its history is there, but so is the possibility of surprise. Saint Laurent has such a distinct vocabulary. I’m curious to see what another designer might do with it, which parts they would bring forward, and which they might allow to soften. Keep your sales associate on standby.

And that’s what I find so compelling about fashion: just when I think a house no longer speaks to me, someone might arrive with something new to say. Who will the next Saint Laurent woman be? Will we become friends? Until then, I wish Anthony a fabulous next chapter. And myself a lower heel.

I appointed myself as her personal stylist. She did not ask for one, but here we are. I lay the leopard pants on her dresser with a white T-shirt, a denim jacket, and the matching bow, but my opinionated two-year-old client disagrees and points to the purple pants. How could she? Horrified yet not surprised, I cave in to her" faute de goût". This month, she only swears by this lavender purple. She will grow out of it. Good taste comes with time. We move on to the water bottle, and I thoughtfully hand her the pink Minnie Mouse. “No, I want Bluey.” Tomorrow, I’ll push for a red top and navy pants. After all, blue and red do make purple.

My alarm goes off at 6:30, reminding me how much I hated waking up for class. In all seriousness, what needs to happen at this ungodly hour? Finger painting? Play-Doh? That being said, education before everything. I am relieved of my motherly duties for a couple of minutes to recuperate. God bless the iPad. Her screen time, my me time.I head to my closet while silently cursing my husband for not handling the mornings. He already handles absolutely everything else in our lives. Why not add this to the list? Today, I will be wearing black sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and more black. I grab a pair of camel fur-lined Uggs with a little platform, which is mortifying, but I can’t deal. Did I actually buy these? Why do I even own those abominations in Miami? The car is downstairs.

At the school gate, after listening to “The Wheels on the Bus” about thirty times, I spot my friend Bree and her daughter, Celine. Gabriella agreed to wear her leopard barrel pants to match the school’s lion mascot. My impeccable taste prevailed. A win is a win. 1–0. The backpack is purple. 1–1. The girls seem as thrilled to be here as I am, but both have style. Celine is wearing a pink Liberty dress, matching bows in her hair, and blush pink rhinestone Miu Miu ballerinas. Naturally, we try to get them to hold hands to take a picture and fail. We can coordinate the clothes, not the children. As I stand there in Uggs from twenty seasons ago and my finest mall-goth apparel, I notice that Bree has done no better. She probably got dressed in the dark, and I love her for that. “Our daughters are icons and we look like shit,” Bree tells me.

On the way back to our cars, we pass one of the mothers from the class. She is a vision, with legs for miles, a perfect tan, and a navy and white tennis outfit with the matching socks. I have an eye for these things. I am my daughter’s stylist, for crying out loud. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail with a cascade of golden curls, and I glance at my reflection in the window of a car. I could have brushed my hair. “She is so beautiful.” “Ugh, I hate her.”

We start laughing. Less than a minute ago, we were waving goodbye to our daughters, and now look at us, two mean girls gossiping outside the school about a woman whose only crime is looking pretty. Before I know it, I’m back in high school. Earlier this morning, I could barely remember how to put on clothes, but gossiping with my friend at the school gate? Well, that’s muscle memory. My car is the last one there, abandoned in the middle of the sidewalk, hazard lights flashing. “See you at pickup.”

I sent my daughter off to pre-K, and somewhere along the way, my teenage personality came roaring back. This is The School Gate Theory. I write the title on the venti Starbucks latte cup I had forgotten to throw away. Serendipity. Back home, I sit at my computer in my emo costume. I probably should change, but for what? My day happens in my office or in the car. The Uggs stay.

By pickup, it’s raining. I make my way through carpool, and as Miss Carolina puts my daughter in the car seat, I smile. Carpool is genius. Nobody has to know I am still in my Hot Topic couture. And here I am, writing about clothes without changing mine. I am a disgrace to my own column. Education comes first.

Bisous,
Olympia

I bought it on the resale market as a gift to myself. I’d lost my voice for two decades, and now I was writing again. I was proud. Proud enough for leopard tweed. It’s Chanel tweed but make it 2026. The perfect comeback jacket. When will I wear it? Definitely not on a random day. The day will have to be worthy of the jacket, and if that takes three years, the jacket will have to wait. I’ve done my part. The rest is in the hands of the universe.

Speaking of manifestation, I have to wear this incredible Valentino necklace I unearthed on a trip to Paris. It’s been two years. Seriously, universe, you need to get going. I bought it in a dépôt-vente for its beauty, not its use, as one usually does. The clasp was broken and gave me leverage in the negotiations. Making the necklace mine? Finger in the nose, I can bargain in my sleep. Predicting when I’ll wear it is another matter. I’m not a fortune teller. So I relinquish control and expect my life to come up with a few special moments for these pieces. In the meantime, I have this Valentino treasure waiting, and I’m waiting for the same occasion. Moving on.

There was a time when I felt some guilt about owning extraordinary pieces and never wearing them. Then one morning, while running errands in one of my disgraceful athletic disguises, I had a divine revelation concerning Olyland. For those unfamiliar with the premises, Olyland is my walk-in closet, a room the size of a bedroom. It contains everything I’ve bought, inherited or borrowed and never returned over the past twenty-five years, regimented, I might add, with obsessive precision. The whole shebang is locked like a vault and opens only with my fingerprint. My husband has never been inside. Thank you, universe.

Anyway, back to my revelation: Olyland is a library, and the books are my clothes. Now I am getting all “intellectuelle.” A library is filled with thousands of stories, fairy tales, discoveries, homages, and no one expects you to read the entire collection immediately. Or ever. Well, I’m simply pleased the books are there, ready when I am. Why should my clothes be any different? I’m dressing a life I haven’t lived yet, a life in the making. And just like that, the guilt I’d spent years attaching to my shopping situationship disappeared. Pouf. All those unworn pieces, and I’d failed to recognize my own patience. An honorable virtue. I think I’ve just earned a new bag. Maybe three.

Bisous,

There I am, trapped in a Bergdorf fitting room under the fluorescent lights. My complexion is now green. If we were on Broadway, I could be the witch from Wicked. But I’m in Bergdorf. Different drama. I’m drowning in a sea of T-shirts, fighting for dear life with price tags, hangers, and my sanity. They all look exactly the same. Every single one is wrong. It is a gloomy day in New York. Maybe my last.

Having just moved from London, I was living out of a carry on while my wardrobe was somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. I had forgotten to put AirTags in the container, which was enough to put me on edge. My last resort was to go shopping. With my inspiration somewhere in the Atlantic alongside my clothes, I started with the white T-shirt. Basic and riveting.

Fate had chosen Jen as my salesgirl that day. Fate had a sense of humor. Jen had no idea what she was in for. Together, we walked through the store as I picked white T-shirts from every single rack we passed. One became five, five became fifteen, and by the time we reached the fitting room, she was carrying enough white cotton to dress a small country. I could see Jen already calculating her commission, but I ignored it. I was solving my wardrobe crisis. Today was going to be a good day for both of us. Until it wasn’t. Thirty T-shirts later, neither of us felt the same.

There they were, an army of T-shirt prospects, innocent, lined up and eager to come home with me. I tried the first one on. Wrong. The second. Worse. By number ten, they were no longer T-shirts. They were mocking me. By fifteen, I hated them all. I hated myself. I even hated Jen. The first one was so transparent that it revealed not only my bra but aspirations no respectable woman shopping at Bergdorf would ever admit to having. I stared at myself in the mirror, greenish and offended. This was not a T-shirt. This was the road to social suicide.

The second one practically deprived my arms of any circulation while somehow hanging loose everywhere else. I didn’t even know that was technically possible. I turned to Jen. She looked away. The third looked effortlessly chic on the hanger. On me, it looked like I had given up on life altogether. Catastrophic. I sucked in my stomach, pulled at the sleeves, tucked it in, untucked it, and wiped the sweat from my face. How could a piece of fabric have this much power over me? Jen was useless. I looked around for her. Too late. She had moved on to greener pastures. I didn’t blame her. I was unbearable.

I was defeated, depressed, and one T-shirt away from being done with Bergdorf Goodman forever. Jen had left me to my misery. I deserved it. I started gathering the casualties when, buried underneath the pile of rejects, I spotted one last T-shirt. I almost left it there. I almost didn’t try it on. But I did. Perfect. The cotton was soft. The sleeves hit exactly where they should. It tucked without bunching and made the baggy jeans I was wearing look chic. I moved. Good. I danced a little. Still good. I wasn’t even that green anymore. I had found my white knight. I was saved.

It was The Row. It was $650. My white knight was a gold digger. We were no longer shopping for a basic. I was making financial decisions. I briefly considered a payment plan, Klarna-ing my way through it. Then whatever remained of my dignity kicked in. More importantly, I remembered where I was. You can’t Klarna at Bergdorf. You just can’t.

I said goodbye to my white knight and left him in his castle. He would find another damsel to save. Thirty T-shirts, one traumatized salesgirl, and a forbidden affair that could have cost me $650 later, I walked out of Bergdorf alone and empty-handed. All I had wanted was a white T-shirt.

On the way home, I kept thinking about those thirty T-shirts. How had something as simple as a white T-shirt turned into such a nightmare? Then it hit me. The problem was never the clothes. It was me. Me and everything I expected from them. There was never going to be one perfect white T-shirt.

First, the fitted one. Fitted, not clingy. His duty is to sit perfectly under a blazer without riding up or making me look fat. Tight enough to behave, loose enough to let me breathe. Then there is the T-shirt for my laid-back days. Completely different story. Oversized, but not borrowed. Relaxed, but not sloppy. His purpose is to make me look like I didn’t try. Have you met me? I always try. Moving on to the thick one. He is the responsible one of the bunch. His assignment sounds simple: keep my bra under control, structure my silhouette, and keep my private life private. On the skin, though, he has the texture of a moving box. Nobody has it all. And then, the old favorite. My actual favorite. Soft, stretched, and no longer entirely white. He has lost his shape and the right to leave the house, but not his raison d’être. I could never even think of throwing him away. He is no longer a T-shirt. He is a partner. He has earned his forever status.

Expecting one T-shirt to do it all was my mistake. Back home, as I emptied my carry on, I came across a T-shirt. My old favorite. He ignores every requirement and somehow wins every time.

So much for perfection.

Bisous,

Olympia

In the wee hours of the morning, at precisely 6:47, I begin my daily one-eyed doomscroll. I prefer it to coffee. It sets the tone for the day. A few swipes in, it starts to dawn on me that New York had a very busy night while I fell asleep in front of yet another serial killer trial. Judging by my feed, everyone who is someone was out and about. ShopMy party. Another dinner. Another party. Another cocktail I would absolutely have ordered. Well, it is that time of the year again. Not Christmas time. Fashion Month has begun and so has the circus.

By 7:03, my feed has capitulated. Street style, backstage videos, front rows, outfit changes, and so many people filming themselves crossing the streets. Traffic must be terrible. The yellow cab drivers must be loving it. Everyone is walking en costume, with either a rehearsed candid face or a resting bitch face, behind dark sunglasses despite the complete absence of sun. I watch one Reel, then another, then another. I keep watching. Much ado about nothing. Riveting.

I throw my phone into the depths of my duvet. Ça suffit. But wait a second, where is my invitation? The world, or at least my entire Instagram, apparently has plans. I have to drive Nelson to the vet. He is due for one of his shots. By the time I get back from Surfside Veterinary and Wellness Center, still no email. No message. No mysterious delivery waiting at the door. Did I really think I was going to get invited? Seriously? Acknowledging that I was being slightly delusional did not improve my mood. In one last attempt to salvage it, I came to the only reasonable conclusion. Perhaps New York was a lost cause. That said, there is always Paris. I am French, for God’s sake. Could I be acting a bit unhinged? I check my email. Net a Porter has 15% off selected items, and Bergdorf is having some sort of gift card situation.

Last week, The Closet Theory reached 100 subscribers, yet I am certain the Chanel press office did not disinvite Grace Coddington to give me her seat. I remind myself that I am not an editor at Vogue. I do not have a column at The New York Times. Then again, I visit the Chanel website several times a day. At this point, someone in the analytics department must at least know I exist.

In a parallel world, my assistant, Emily, walks in and places the Chanel invitation in front of me. I don’t react. Obviously, I am invited. Who else? I remind her to find out what they are lending me to wear and continue casually with my day. Eventually, the Chanel offices have a bout of amnesia and thoughtfully forget to ask for the look back. “Would you like to use the card on file?” This is definitely not the Chanel counter. Emily is behind the desk at Surfside Veterinary and Wellness Center, waiting for me to pay Nelson’s invoice. I am still thinking about Paris while Nelson, freshly vaccinated and completely indifferent, waits beside me.

On the way home, with my good old Nelson as my copilot, I start thinking about the matinée I have just conjured for myself. I created an invitation that never existed, a crisis nobody knew or cared about, and a trip to Paris that was never on the books. Fashion gave me the shows. Life gave me Nelson’s rabies shot. I supplied the drama. The Closet Theory it is. You would think that would be the end of it. It was not.

New York passed in a blur. London followed. Still nothing. Whatever. It had never really been my thing anyway. Milan, well, why would the Italians even think about me? But by Paris, I had recovered my self-esteem. This is home territory. It is the last day, and the Chanel show is around the corner. There is still time.

As the show starts, I resign myself to the fact that my invitation has officially failed to reach its destination. I watch from my phone while sitting in horrendous South Florida traffic. The collection is beautiful. The styling is excellent. I open Chanel.com. No hard feelings.

Bisous,

A pair of turquoise velvet, fur-lined Gucci loafers landed at my door. I opened the box, slipped them on and was instantly smitten. If only I had not given away the same shoes in pink years earlier after declaring them an abomination. They were only the first of four pairs.

Earlier that week, during my nightly scroll routine, a pair of electric-purple velvet Celine loafers stopped me. Elegant, jewel-toned and entirely free of fur, they should have been the end of the story. Instead, they reminded me of my pink Gucci loafers, a pair I had not thought about in years. Fur-lined and, by then, a faux pas. What had happened to them? Within minutes, I was on the resale sites. The clock struck eleven. So much for going to bed at a reasonable hour.

When Alessandro Michele released them more than a decade ago, I bought the pink velvet pair immediately. They were a statement, a piece I had to own. I loved the color, the iconic gold horsebit and the fact that they made everything look fun. The brownish-gray fur came with them. Life is never perfect, but fine. Then one summer morning, the fur was all I could see. Like a flaw in an old boyfriend: easy to ignore until, quite suddenly, the whole man becomes unbearable. Nothing had happened. The shoes had not changed. It was me, not you. Once adored, now an abomination. It was over. I never wanted to see them again. They were dead to me.

When it comes to my closet, I am a killer: quiet, efficient and never looking back. With clothes, love does not always fade; sometimes it simply vanishes overnight. I can wear something into the ground for years, then wake up one morning and wonder who let it into my life. There is rarely a reason and never a goodbye. The pink loafers got neither a fair trial nor a chance to appeal. I just gave them away. I do not remember to whom. You might call it an assassination. In my world, it is a closet edit. Poor shoes.

Back on the resale sites, I scrolled through the obituaries. Pages of the dead, all available to purchase. I did not see any red flags. I saw inventory. The turquoise pair was my first act of redemption, but one pair was not enough to make things right. Purple and black followed over the next few days. They came from Germany, Texas and Boston, all at very competitive prices, which made stopping at three borderline irrational. Three pairs for the one I had killed. We were even.

In case you were wondering, the first three pairs now live peacefully in Olyland, my walk-in closet, where the dead are welcomed back in color. Last night, I found a mustard pair in Barcelona and added it to the family. They are mustard velvet, covered in colorful patches and impossible to find twice. They are also one size too small. And yes, I knew that before pushing the Buy button. This minor inconvenience was not going to keep us apart. Four pairs later, am I pardoned? I bloody hope so.

Only after slipping into the turquoise pair did the question of hygiene come to mind. These were, after all, secondhand, fur-lined shoes. I had spent a week examining colors, prices and international shipping routes. Their previous occupants had somehow been spared from the investigation. From now on, they will be worn with socks. Resurrection, it turns out, comes with a dress code.

Bisous,

It was a gorgeous Tuesday, and we were sitting at the Four Seasons for a Tod’s luncheon, enjoying hors d’oeuvres and light conversation. I turned to introduce myself to my seat companion, as any civilized person does. Except I never made it to her face, let alone her outfit. A gigantic emerald sitting on her left hand nearly cost me my eyesight. Were we talking about fashion or politics? No clue. All I could see and think about was this enormous green rock sitting on the tiniest hand I had ever seen. And, if you’re interested, her name was Dara.

I made it past the emerald and discovered there was an actual person attached to it. Yes, I am not that shallow. She was the jewelry designer behind that outrageous emerald. Eventually, Dara became one of my closest friends. But between two errands, I often catch myself drifting into a kind of reverie. The ring is mine. Fourteen carats of emerald sitting unapologetically on my pinky. Wherever I go, the ring goes, hand in hand. Literally. Alas, the ring never makes it beyond the figment of my imagination. And every time I see it on her finger, I think the same thing: I want that ring. In fact, I need it.

There are not a hundred solutions. I could simply buy it and call it a day. Financial considerations aside, my friend is a phone call away, and we already have a lifetime planned together. The ring and I.

Keeping me apart from my forbidden fourteen carat affair is my own outdated idea of jewelry. I am perfectly comfortable buying myself clothes, shoes, bags and absolutely everything else my closet could probably not survive without. But with jewelry, I hesitate. I have always thought of jewelry as something given to me. Refrain from calling me entitled. Preferably by my husband. Is my thinking old fashioned? Probably. The feminist movement would disown me on the spot. Also, we are in 2026. Wake up.

The more I kept thinking about it, the more my own logic started to crumble. My husband should not buy me this ring. I should. This is not husband gift material. This is my Employee of the Month celebration. I want that emerald in my face at school pickup, getting stuck in my grocery bags at Publix, not at the annual gala I am never invited to. Also, if he wishes to wire me the funds for it, I won’t say no.

The ring is bold. It’s a statement. Wearing it feels strangely defiant, especially in front of my husband. Yet underneath all that bravado, its grandeur makes me shy. Could it be guilt? No. I am not sneaking home at four in the morning with my shoes in my hand. So why does showing up with a huge green rock on my pinky feel suspiciously close to committing jewelry infidelity? Am I cheating on the jewelry he gave me? With an emerald. On my pinky. Am I going too far?

A wise person once said, “I can buy myself flowers.” That wise person was Miley Cyrus. Well, yes, Miley, I know. I can write my name in the sand too. But flowers are easy. And flowers die. An emerald I intend to wear for the rest of my life is another matter entirely. Above all, I don’t want flowers. Still, the girl had a point. If I can buy myself flowers, clothes, shoes, bags and everything else, why does buying myself jewelry still feel like breaking some kind of unwritten rule?

When it comes to getting dressed, clothes require a certain level of planning. Jewelry requires a hand. I have a hand. What I don’t have is time and, recently, the nerves. The emerald needs approximately three seconds to land on my finger. A decent outfit today requires considerably more, and I am already fighting against the clock. Class starts at 8 a.m. Why so early, I will never understand. She is two years old. And then it all made sense. What I love most about jewelry is that I can actually see it. No mirror required. No searching for my reflection. I can be running late, carrying bags, writing this article, and all I have to do is look down and think, damn, I look good. The same goes for bracelets and watches.

But before Miley gets too excited and Simone de Beauvoir claims me as one of her own, make no mistake. Being my own jeweler does not, under any circumstances, mean that I want my husband to stop buying jewelry for me. Au contraire. The jewelry he gives me carries something very different: a gesture of love that, preferably, comes in a very nice box. My emerald pinky ring serves a purpose entirely of its own. My vanity. I have room for both in my jewelry box. Fortunately.

Perhaps my analysis couldn’t have been more off base. What if buying myself jewelry is not cheating at all? Could I have been unnecessarily faithful to a rule I was always free to break? My husband certainly did not care. Miley definitely did not. Dara, judging by the emeralds that started this entire identity crisis, did not either. Which ultimately leaves only one person standing between me and that ring. Me.

Will I buy the ring? Maybe one day. I am still negotiating with myself. But I know exactly what will happen the next time I see Dara. I will look at her emerald. I will look at my lonely, bare pinky. How much longer do I intend to remain faithful?

Bisous,

It took me almost two decades to get my hands on this piece. A 2009 Balmain military denim jacket, the epitome of everything I worshipped about fashion. After a day of relentless bidding on eBay, it was mine. At last. The wait was over. Or so I thought. My beloved Balmain has been sitting quietly in the depths of my closet since its homecoming. Sleeping Beauty. Unworn. I’ll leave you to do the math.

I was 19 when I landed a very important job as an assistant to an editor at Madame Figaro in Paris. Every day, I scrolled through Style.com, pulled runway looks and called fashion houses. In my mind, I was doing the Lord’s work. You would have thought I worked at the White House. Back then, my devotion to fashion was very different. I never owned runway pieces, though being close enough to them was a thrill in its own right. I bought magazines, studied the runways and searched the high street for anything that came remotely close. Judging by the photographs, my sense of style was questionable. My obsession was not.

The fixation had a name. Balmain. To be precise, Look No. 16 from the Spring 2009 runway. It was all I could think about. The shoulders, the military buttons, the denim. Rihanna had it. I wanted it. I spent every second of my free time looking for dupes on the high street. I was not working much.

Years later, a trip down fashion memory lane brought me right back. I was curious to see what had happened to it, similar to looking up an old boyfriend on Instagram to see if he is married with kids or, even better, divorced and miserable. I checked 1stDibs, Vestiaire, The RealReal. Nowhere to be found. The obsession came roaring back. And then, there it was. On eBay. At auction. Mine.

After all that, I finally had it in my possession. It fit. I remembered exactly why I had fallen in love with it all those years ago. And then, as if returning a piece to the archives, I put it in the closet. If only I could tell you I was waiting for the right occasion. Clueless as to what I was waiting for, wearing it just to walk from one end of the apartment to the other was certainly not an option. Though why not? After all that fantasizing, my actual life did not seem to warrant it.

I hunted it for years. Now I was hunting for somewhere to wear it. I waited. Waited for a dinner, a party, a trip, anything that warranted the glamour and eccentricity. Invitations came. Plans were made. But somehow, it never made the final edit. There was always a reason. Too much for the day. Too precious for dinner. Too Balmain for a Tuesday.

At some point, I had to question the logic behind it. How special did life need to get before I could actually wear my clothes? If not now, when? At 50? 60? Pass them on to my daughter? Meanwhile, Tuesday kept showing up. Every single week. What if the occasion did not need to come first? What if I had it all wrong? Maybe I did not need a reason. Maybe wearing them was the reason.

Tuesday could be it. No special occasion. No perfect plan. No waiting for my social calendar to suddenly become more exciting. Which brings me back to my Balmain jacket. The exile lasted long enough. Almost 16 years to find it. Eighteen months to do absolutely nothing with it. It was time. This Tuesday, we are going out. Out of my closet. Out of my house. Where are we going? I have no idea. For once, it does not matter.

Bisous,

Fashion, always.

It all came to me while I was getting a facial. I was at home, lying down with some kind of peel on my face, when the opening paragraph wrote itself in my mind. Le Closet Theory was born.

The aloe mask never made it onto my face. As Anastasia, my facialist, reached for it, I sat up and ended the treatment. Tingly and red, I could not wait one more second. Neither could my ideas. They had waited inside my mind for years, but the final thirty minutes of my treatment were apparently impossible. Still dripping in ylang-ylang oil, I ran to my husband’s old home office and started writing. The words raced across the page. It was new. It felt right. An hour later, my first essay existed. And now what? Should I write a book? Publish the essay? But where? My last contribution to the internet had been during the MySpace era, two decades ago. Things had changed; I guess. How does Substack work? Should I have finished my facial?

After deserting my facial, sprinting to my home office and convincing myself that I had just begun my memoir, the essay simply sat on my computer for two weeks. Writing had been the easy part. Pressing publish required a friend and some extensive negotiations with myself. The following Tuesday, I published “The Closet Theory.”

It has always been about fashion. Always. At first, I considered social media, but Instagram would require me to speak through pictures of myself, and I just can’t. I found beauty in writing about clothes, not in posting them.

My days moved between home, playdates and the mall, with the occasional dinner in between. Two weeks ago, school drop-off joined the itinerary. This was the life I had always wanted. Still, somewhere between one place and the next, I was wondering what was coming down the runway, which color would define the season, what trouser silhouette would take over. I created outfits for places I never went. Fashion was constantly in motion in my mind but completely still in my life. Our relationship was surviving on imagination alone. We were heading towards a breakup, not for lack of love, but because I no longer knew what to do with it.

It was writing that rescued my relationship with fashion. My clothes found a purpose: somewhere to go, even when I had nowhere to be or simply chose not to go. On the page, they began lives of their own. One theory at a time, they left the closet. They went to dinners, survived internship disasters and made it through school drop-offs and PTA meetings, carrying old stories with them. With that, my love for fashion finally stepped outside the comfort of the closet and into my writing.

Six weeks, six published theories and ten unpublished ones later, I returned to the first post. I recognized the name at the top. The voice, though, sounded nothing like mine. Since when was I so polite? This was me. This was me in a place where I knew nobody. Shy, unduly polite, choosing every word meticulously and waiting to see how much of myself the room could handle. The page was different. It had no rules, no code to understand. It simply let me be.

Sixteen essays later, not sixteen years, I stopped holding back. I was no longer a timid guest. I was the one hosting the dinner. One theory led to another, and then another. The life I once thought had so little room for fashion kept turning into material. Fashion was no longer standing still. It had left my imagination for the page, and I was the one trying to keep up. At thirty-six, I wrote the first theory. Now, as I turn thirty-seven, I am writing it again. I still have no idea what Le Closet Theory will become. I only know that fashion and I have called off the breakup. As for what comes next, perhaps it will find me during my next facial.

Bisous

Here I am, sitting on a chair designed for a two-year-old, too shy to speak to anyone, while my daughter plays with the kitchenette. She hands me a fake cupcake. I wish it were a Xanax. It is orientation day at my daughter’s new school, and it seems that it is mine too. It has been almost twenty years since I last set foot in a classroom. The chairs might have gotten a tad smaller, but my feelings about first days have not. Today is no different. Actually, it is probably worse.

Earlier that morning, before the actual separation hijacked my mind, I opened my closet and could not help but ask myself: what kind of mother do I want to introduce to the school? I could be fabulous. Cool. Put together without looking like the kind of woman who spends two hours getting dressed and makes her daughter run late every morning. The mother from Paris, naturally elegant, slightly eccentric but warm and friendly. I wanted the other mothers to wonder: Who is this mother?

The look I went for had very little to do with the mother I had in mind. Somehow, I had managed to dress as though I were the one about to go to class. A blue boyfriend shirt from Gap, medium-wash denim and brown suede Chanel ballerinas. In my hand, a dark-brown Peggy clutch from The Row, the only item suggesting that I was at least trying to be the adult.

Back at school, against all odds, my husband, my daughter and I arrive on time. We are the second family in the classroom. Orientation has barely begun, and I am already making a good impression. It must be the back-to-school outfit. My daughter, meanwhile, immediately begins butterflying between toys and tables. The classroom is her playground. Well, the same cannot be said for me. As more families arrive, I become quieter. Almost mute. The fabulous mother from Paris has left the room before introductions have time to begin. I move to the back of the classroom, sit stiffly on the tiny chair and wait for someone to speak to me. Nobody does. Excellent start.

Two older children, no more than four, arrive with their little brother. Within seconds, toys are flying across the room. Blocks on the floor. Plastic food everywhere. Complete chaos. I want to stand up, put everything back in place and tell those monsters to stop the carnage. Instead, I remain glued to my tiny toddler chair, waiting for someone to save the classroom. Then it occurs to me that someone could be me. My daughter bursts into tears. I jump off my little chair to pick her up and hold her tight against me. I realize that we have been having the same first day. She is shy. I am shy. She wants to leave. I want to run away and never come back. She is two. I turn thirty-seven in two weeks.

The following morning is our official first day of school, and we wake up late. Full disclosure: I wake up late. The back-to-school look does not make it to day two. I am right back in my high-school days, and those were not my brightest years. I throw on jeans, keep my pajama T-shirt on and slip into red sneakers. So much for looking put together. We arrive at school at nine. I am mortified. Drop-off was at 8:10. Forget about making a good impression on the mothers. They left forty minutes ago. Perhaps that is not such a bad thing.

At the classroom door, my daughter bursts into tears again. I am about to do the same. Having a mental breakdown in the hallway will not get either of us through the first day. They close the door, and I can still hear her crying. I want to go back inside, grab her and run as fast and as far away as I can. Be strong, I repeat frantically to myself as tears roll down my face. Instead, I walk to my car. At least I did not have time to put on makeup. That worked out.

Sitting in the car, my self-respect at an all-time low, I remember that drop-off is at 8:10 every morning. At 8:10, neither my daughter nor I are operational. Now I will have to be awake, dressed and possibly pleasant to other mothers. My performance so far: D-minus.

I know better than to stay in the parking lot. Given another minute, I will march back into the classroom and withdraw us both from school forever. I begin to wonder whether I could homeschool her. Teach her math. No, that is a terrible idea. Instead, I find an Argentine bakery next door, order a coffee and a medialuna, open my computer and begin writing. My daughter is inside having her first day of school. I am next door, still wearing my pajama T-shirt, trying to recover from mine.

At pickup, I run toward the gate and see another mother. Neither of us is dressed to the nines. We look at each other and laugh. “Tomorrow will be better. Upwards only,” I tell her. We laugh again. I think I made a friend.

Bisous

Ten minutes after arriving in Weston, a photographer covering the party for an online publication asked Dara and me to pose. Hesitantly, we agreed to the photograph. When she asked for our names, we explained that we did not have any. We were there for our dear friend’s birthday. Fame was not on that night’s agenda. Nameless, we thanked the photographer and went inside.

Getting there was another story. It required an hour in the car, a stop at the Prada outlet and some internal negotiations worthy of an international summit. I had not been to a proper party in a very long time. These days, most of my plans never make it beyond the calendar. But this was Michelle. I was not missing her birthday simply because I was too lazy to go out. Bye-bye, bed. Hello, Weston.

To avoid any fashion-related angst, I jumped into my daily uniform: oversized light-wash Levi’s and a white T-shirt. To elevate the look, I threw on my red Irish Twin tweed jacket, slipped into my Alaïa escarpins and took out the vintage Miu Miu bag I had spent nineteen years hunting down. Jeans and a white T-shirt had never betrayed me, and they were not about to start on my return to society. The bag made it clear that I cared. Vintage treasures do not leave my closet for just anyone.

As dinner begins, I scan the room. There is no dress code, thank God. I dread them like the plague. But looking at the guests, you would never know we are all attending the same birthday. Had I missed a theme or something? Some even appear to have arrived from another decade. God knows what invitations they received. They have all led us to the same place: a Lebanese restaurant in a Weston strip mall.

My side of the table is a world of its own. Directly across from me sits a fabulous Frenchman in his sixties who has something to do with the CFDA. What exactly, I do not really know, but it seems fab. To my left is a woman in a kaftan fit for a night in Oman. We are at a Lebanese restaurant, so why not? As she sits down, she immediately announces that her blonde wig might be flammable. Amazon couture. There are no candles on the table. We might make it out alive. And then there is Francesca Filler. The cherry on the cake. Well, she deserves a paragraph of her own.

Francesca arrives in Weston straight from 1987, wearing a gold sequined mini dress, high heels and Schiaparelli accessories. Her makeup is completely d’ époque: strong eyeliner, sculpted brows and a red lip. No concessions have been made to the present. Her hair is an homage to hairspray. Big, high and sculptural, it could withstand a Category 5 hurricane.

Leaving the 305 is apparently all the risk Francesca is prepared to take for the night. She has brought her own bottle of wine, or three. “I only drink the good stuff,” she says while filling my glass from across the table. I can barely hear a word she is saying, but she laughs at everything I say. Well, I am funny.

The rest of the room is just as interesting as my little corner. I spot one woman wearing a long dress and heels. Is she heading to prom straight after her falafel? Another, in denim shorts and a bright pink top, might have stopped by for dinner on her way back from summer camp. And then appears this majestic creature of the night, covered in piercings and dressed head to toe in Rick Owens. He butterflies around as though he has been teleported from a downtown New York runway. Am I hallucinating? Or is Francesca’s wine taking effect?

Then Michelle gives a speech, and suddenly we are at The Michelle Show. The room becomes her stage. She laughs and throws the occasional “Ya tú sabes” at us. Side note: Michelle is not Spanish, nor does she have any Spanish origins. For a moment, all fifty-four guests forget the drive to Weston. In other words, very Michelle.

For someone who obsesses over fashion as much as I do, the copy-and-paste effect has ruined half the fun of actually going out. On the rare occasion that I do, I spend an embarrassing amount of time looking at what people are wearing. This is Miami, so quite often, what they are not wearing. Michelle’s party is refreshing. Somewhere between Oman, summer camp, a downtown runway and the eighties, we have all met in Weston, and I am here, lucky to witness it all. Fabulous.

After the birthday cake, a phone call from my daughter reminds me that Miami is still an hour away. The party is still going, but my grand retour to nightlife has reached its end. I say goodnight and begin the journey back to my world.

A couple of days later, Michelle sent us the photograph from the online publication. Apparently, neither Dara nor I had remembered to smile. We were nameless, so who cared? There we were: the Witches of Weston.

Bisous

Majorelle was the only option. Not because of the food, although it is exquisite. The underlying reason was far more important: the dining room matched the dress. More precisely, they complemented each other without trying too hard. Majorelle was magic, and so was the outfit I had planned.

There it was: a vintage red, strapless midi dress that moved with every step. Very Carrie Bradshaw going on a date with Big. Not the tutu, but almost. To enhance the silhouette, I had opted for yellow crocodile Aquazzura stilettos. I completed the look with vintage gold and enamel earrings and vintage Cartier bangles borrowed from my mother’s safe, sans permission, of course. I was dressed to the nines. A real Cinderella. I glanced at my phone. It was 1 p.m. His flight was not supposed to land at LaGuardia until 9 that night. I had eight hours to wait before my big ball. I decided to remain in costume.

Timing aside, there was still one minor detail: was the man actually coming to New York? I silenced the doubt with the affirmations I had just learned: “He is coming. Of course he is coming.” The reservation had been made. The outfit was ready. Whether the man would actually arrive felt, for a New York minute, secondary. We had met twice. That was more than enough for me to reconsider my whole wardrobe and, while I was at it, my personality.

Until then, my uniform for going out had always been the same: a crop top, a blazer, baggy jeans and some kind of heel. There was nothing wrong with it. That was the problem. I looked fine. Tonight, I wanted more. This time was different. He was different. For one, he did not seem to be carrying a hundred kilos of emotional baggage and insecurity. That alone showed great potential. More importantly, next to him I felt elegant, composed and alive. Naturally, this required dresses. Lots of dresses.

As one does, I did not stop at one. I bought enough dresses for an entire relationship. The clothes were unlike anything I had ever worn. The relationship, meanwhile, had barely made it to its third real date. There was a demure dress for breakfast, a short one paired with black Chanel Mary Janes for walking around New York, and an Etro silk dress for lunch. Drinks and dinner were a completely different story. Even his departure had a look. Effortless, of course, yet screaming, “Please come back soon.”

The outfit planning had turned into a whole dossier on my phone. I had assigned a look to every possible moment. Yes, I know. It was a lot. Suddenly, I was back in my Madame Figaro days, planning photo shoots. Well, in this case, a date. He was supposed to come to New York for two nights. I had bought enough clothes for six months. What can I say? I am a romantic.

Against all odds, the man came. As planned, we went to Majorelle. The dress worked. The shoes worked. Even the jewelry from my mother’s safe worked. The date was perfect until, just before the vanilla soufflé, he announced that he had to leave for Washington, D.C., the following evening for work. Total devastation. There I was, dressed for my fairy tale, eating soufflé in silence and despair. Just like that, our future life together was over, and my six remaining outfits were suddenly unemployed.

In retrospect, the clothes were never really for him. They were for the woman I had already decided to become around him. Any sane person would have called this irrational. Borderline neurotic. Imagining an entire relationship before even confirming the weekend is usually a recipe for a broken heart and several dresses I could not return.

Fortunately, for the sake of my reasoning and my self-esteem, the man came back. Then he came back again. Eventually, he became my husband. And if you are wondering about the dossier, it still exists in my Notes app.

The fairy tale came true. The outfits, however, never left my closet.

Bisous

For almost a year, I had been visiting the same Chloé top around the world: at the flagship store in Paris, in Bal Harbour, and in New York. Each time, I tried it on. Each time, I left without it. By then, we had history.

Made entirely from black lace, it had a fitted bodice, a deep neckline, cape-like sleeves, and a ruffled peplum. Only one detail stood between us: the $6,000 price tag. Before tax, just to make the decision even more insulting.

Then the long-awaited sale season arrived.

I kept returning to the Bergdorf website to check the price. It dropped slowly, but never enough. So I waited—a level of patience I rarely display when shopping.

Eventually, it was 80 percent off, and somehow my size was still available. A 36 is usually long gone by then. It was a calling. I answered.

A few days later, a small, suspiciously light cardboard box arrived. I assumed it was another Amazon order for my husband and set it aside.

Later that day, I noticed it on my desk. It was addressed to me. Inside were the words Bergdorf Goodman.

It took me a moment to understand what the hell I was looking at. There it was: my Chloé top, rolled into a ball inside a clear plastic bag.

I had waited a year for that.

No hanger. No tissue paper. No garment bag. Nothing to suggest that the ball of lace in front of me had ever cost an entire month’s rent—or had even been down a runway.

In my head, a small ceremony had been prepared for its arrival. It turned out I was the only one invited.

I had no words—this rarely happens. Bergdorf had sent my precious Chloé top looking like someone’s forgotten dry cleaning.

For a moment, I considered closing the box and sending it straight back. It was still in its pathetic plastic bag. An eyesore. A crime against fashion. I could not look at it for a minute more.

Then I told myself to be the bigger person. Come on—the top was 80 percent off.

So I opened the bag.

Underneath the indignity, the top was everything I remembered—and more. Oh, glory.

The lace was exquisite. The fit was unlike anything I owned. The silhouette looked vintage and completely modern at once—romantic, gothic, and somehow grunge.

This was the pièce de résistance my wardrobe had been missing—and God knows how long I had resisted buying it. A statement piece that did not require an entire production around it. I could wear it with loose, light-wash denim or Saint Laurent tuxedo trousers. It worked with both.

The top survived the plastic bag. Bergdorf and I were done. Moving on.

These days, everything calls itself luxury. The word is everywhere; the care is not. Luxury is now a vibe, not a standard. Usually, that means an ordinary experience with better lighting and a worse attitude.

For instance, go for lunch at Hotel Costes in Paris, and you are welcomed by an arrogant 20-year-old hostess who believes she is Madonna. The attitude is shitty, to say the least. It has become part of the décor, and still, we keep coming back.

Meanwhile, a Chloé top—the product of real craftsmanship and a designer’s vision—arrives rolled inside a plastic bag.

We have kept the circus alive. The care is dead.

Of course, I kept the top. It is divine.

I also kept the grudge.

The top was 80 percent off. Apparently, so was my experience.

Bisous

Besides being an incredible friend, Jill is an incredibly talented designer and the founder of The Irish Twin. So, it felt natural—and perhaps slightly ambitious—to ask her to create all five of my wedding dresses with three months’ notice.

The entire process took place virtually—I did not travel to Paris for a single fitting. I was ent…

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The idea wasn’t mine. It belonged to my friend Dara, who wouldn’t stop asking, “Why aren’t you doing something in fashion? You love it so much.”

I said I would think about it. I liked the sound of it. However, each time I tried to put that thought into action, a tide of uncertainty took possession of me, bringing my potential social media career to an immediate stop. Why would I do that? Who needs another rich girl online posting about her outfits? Who the hell cares about a bag rotation?

I, on the other hand, had stopped caring for myself altogether during pregnancy. The weight of watching myself disappear was far heavier than the weight of the baby I actually carried. Finding a reason not to do it felt reassuring, and yet I kept circling back to it. Fashion never stopped inspiring me, but if you were to judge by my pregnancy photos alone, you’d think otherwise.

I am a mother of two, and before being that, I was an international party girl. Fashion was an extension of who I was, a way to leave a lasting impression in a world of fleeting, vapid parties. More than that, it became a means of turning meaningless nights into moments of purpose. I didn’t remember much, but I always remembered what I wore.

This brings me to today. And why now?

Now that my life is full of love, full of purpose, why not fill it with fashion?

It took me a while, but I finally understood.

Because I can, but most importantly, because I get to do it for myself.

Because it lights me up in a way I can’t explain.

It gives me a sense of joy that is mine and only mine—minus the awful hangover.

Well, isn’t that what fashion’s all about?

So, to answer my friend Dara…

Le Closet Theory is for anyone whose life has changed, who may have lost a part of themselves, but who keeps coming back to fashion to reconnect, feel good, and have fun. Life is full of ups and downs, yet a good outfit always remains, and I get to share that with you today.

Bisous,

Olympia