The I’m in Love Theory

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