Do you think Mademoiselle Rachel Ojuromi knew she would walk for Matthieu Blazy when she was turning the streets of Nigeria into her podium ? Well, I bet she did. I wasn’t paying much attention to who was walking the runway at the Grand Palais, as I was too busy gawking at the clothes. I found out about her afterward, while watching every possible recap on social media, and immediately thought of my leopard tweed jacket. It’s hanging in le closet, waiting for me to get a book deal. My equivalent of walking Chanel.
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,
I loved your article and I share your feeling about clothes. I never thought about my dressing room as a library. This is so true!
My clothes are the books of my life.
Well written Olympia. 👏🫶
So witty and waiting for the next story!! 😍