I vividly remember seeing Sofia Karvela for the first time. I was a New York Fashion Week dresser for L’AGENCE, having just taken the train in from my provincial collegiate life. I was immediately entrenched in the chaos that is NYFW and intrigued by a specific Greek woman who was yelling and laughing; Sofia Karvela caught my eye.

Flash forward a few months later, I delicately stalked her, begging to assist her in any way. I worked closely with Sofia as her assistant, running errands, steaming garments, and being her hands and feet as she made final styling decisions.

A few years later, I now have the pleasure of working with Sofia on campaigns and overarching creative visions. When she flies to LA, we reconvene in the studio as she lets me in on her plethora of recent dramas and stories. Her styling work routine includes calling her kids regularly, screaming in Greek as she teaches them how to treat women and be “good boys,” and dancing on laps as her quadruple shot of Starbucks espresso with three stevia kicks in.

I hope this conversation lets you in on a small part of the magic that is Sofia Karvela.

Karvela was born into Greek royalty. Her mother, Anna Vissi, is regularly compared to Cher, and her father, Nikos Karvelas, is a talented Greek musician and composer. Karvela grew up with paparazzi, creative directors, and fame that she digested as mundane:

Sofia

I think that as far as taste goes, I was able to see a side of fashion that revolved around more of a show. It was a big theatrical point of view of what clothing can do; everything was so extreme and so loud. It was about a performance and it had to tell a story. You put on a piece of clothing and you transform into this character.

Lila

What did this do to your perception of style?

Sofia

It actually made me, not necessarily resent that, that’s not the right word, but it pushed me to explore how to create magic out of everyday things. How do I find magic in the simplicity? How do I create something that feels comfortable for me to be and live in? Not have to perform in. So even though my eye, my brain, was trained from my mother and the people that were around her - amazing designers and stylists and creative directors - it was always somewhat boring to me. Now, I find magic in the right fit of a pair of jeans and a perfect t-shirt. And that ultimately transformed my point of view on styling: I want to put simplicity together in a way where it feels like magic.

Lila

Was there a defining childhood moment when you became aware of your unique aesthetic perspective?

Sofia

Yes. I dressed myself once when I was six. I wore yellow socks with white shoes and white jean shorts and a yellow t-shirt and white jean jacket. I was very specific about the socks hitting right above the ankle. I had this thing that they were too long, so I’d cut them because I didn’t want them to hit below the knee, I wanted them to hit above the ankle, in between. It had to be that perfect proportion. I started freaking out and I wouldn’t leave the house. And my mom and dad looked at me and they were like, what is wrong with you?

I just had this thing when it came to color proportion and balance in the way that I needed it to be done. But also, that was every day for me. I just remember that particular day because both of them looked at me like I was crazy.

Generally speaking, when I would go to school, people would always comment on what I wear and how I was wearing it.

It felt like it was the only thing that I had going for me. I was chubby, I was awkward, I was kind of dumb, sucked in everything, terrible at sports. I had no idea what was going on half the time. But somehow I would put shit together on my body and people would look at it and say, that’s cool. I just felt like I could control people by what I wear.

Lila

Is fashion primarily a form of control for you?

Sofia

It was about control. Growing up with really famous parents and having no one fucking care about who I was outside of them, it felt like the only thing I had going for me.

Although she had a penchant for styling, Sofia never planned on becoming a stylist. She moved to New York City and got into acting school, thinking it was the natural path for her:

Sofia

I was terrible and I hated acting and I was drinking myself to death. I thought that just because my parents are artists and famous that I should do the same. I’ll follow the same footsteps and it will be as easy and I’ll become famous and all my problems will get solved.

Rehab forced a reckoning for Sofia that extended beyond sobriety. Without acting as a default, she had to figure out what she actually wanted.

Sofia

When I got out of rehab, I thought, what am I even like? I don’t want to act, I hate acting, I don’t even know what the fuck this is. I loved styling. I loved clothes.

Sofia had the golden ticket to styling, which was the phone number of Patricial Field, or Pat. She called up Pat and asked to assist her, where she abruptly received a “no, absolutely not” from New York City’s number one stylist.

Sofia

I was in a place of desperate need to be around some sort of glamorous industry world, all I had known. At the time, she was the number one person at Sex and the City. I begged and she said, go sweep the store for a little bit and then we’ll see what we can have you do.

Lila

How did you grow with Pat and what informed your growth?

Sofia

I think that my addict behavior really worked well when I switched it into something creative, when it became the ambitious part of me. I would do anything that I was asked, which was sweep a store. Even though I came from pretty successful parents, I didn’t need to sweep shit. But I wanted it.

And I’ll tell you the one thing that I learned from Pat. It was this: plan B. If one thing doesn’t work out, go immediately to plan B. Learn to layer, find ways to make textures, don’t do obvious things. Try things that feel off, but try it, see it, play with it.

Lila

Did training with Pat inform your styling today?

Sofia

I started forming this understanding and training my eye to see things that other people don’t see. Knowing what fits, knowing what works, knowing what pairs together, knowing what absolutely does not.

Lila

After Pat, what was your first “I made it” moment?

Sofia

I was nine months pregnant with my son Niko and Ryan McGinley gave me my biggest paycheck. It was right when I thought my life would be over. Then I realized that I might actually survive this whole thing.

Lila

And what do you mean when you thought your life would be over?

Sofia

I was having a baby at the time when I had just started making money. I got pregnant when I was living in a tiny studio in Chelsea. I had stopped taking money from my parents. It was a rough time with the economy in Greece. I felt very uncertain. I kept thinking, how would I survive America by myself? But I did, I fucking did.

From there, Sofia built a robust lifelong career styling for major brands such as Alice + Olivia, L’AGENCE, Milly, and more.

Lila

You have to work within the creative framework of major brands, yet you are hired for your unique vision. How do you navigate styling tensions?

Sofia

I navigate by having an open mind as to who the customer is and communicating very directly with who I am working for. How do we forever value that person that’s spending their money on this piece? How do we inspire them? But also how do we get them out of their comfort zone and acquire new eyes by creating something that feels fresh, new, exciting, and does the brand justice?

Also for me to be able to come in and show a different point of view of how it was designed and how an outside person may see this piece and be willing to inspire the people that created it and also the people that are going to wear it.

Lila

For people who don’t get the pleasure of working closely with you, what is the most exciting part of your job? If someone could take a peek into your day to day, what would be the highlights?

Sofia

I love that question. I think I’ve become so jaded, like I’ve lost the gratitude and understanding of how lucky I am. The best part is the ability to have eyes on trends before they become trends. To see the chaos and the tragedy around clothing and the life or death hysteria we go through. And that itself is hilarious. There is irony in it all.

But also, I love the beautiful people I get to work with. I’m a big people person. These companies that I’ve been with for many years, it’s because of the connection that I form with the people that are there. And I’m not just talking about the bosses, I’m talking about the workers. I’m talking about the connections that we all have and make. In the chaos of it all - the fashion emergencies - you get to form relationships and friendships that stay with you forever. And I think that’s my favorite part of every day. Crazy life I’m in. Fashion people are fucking nuts. We’re dealing with clothes and we think it’s open heart surgery. I think that through that, it’s the irony and the human connection that we form.

Lila

Is there a person or style you find hardest to dress?

Sofia

No, I just don’t style assholes. I don’t like assholes. That’s the one thing I won’t touch. Everyone else is a beautiful work of art that I get excited working with. I don’t give a fuck how much money you have and what you pay me. It’s a no go. I will never deal with you ever again.

Lila

What do you think is the hardest professional lesson you’ve had to learn thus far? And how does it show up in your work today?

Sofia

That it’s not about me. That when you go into a workplace, you are there to serve and create. Doesn’t matter how good you are, how much you know what’s right or wrong. Ego has to be put to bed. You’re there to communicate and service what is required to the best of your ability and be open minded enough to know and see that perhaps your way may not be the right way. You have to be willing to try things that may feel out of your comfort zone to create what you’re paid to do by the client that hired you to do it.

Lila

Is there a piece of clothing, artwork, or person you return to when you need to feel re-inspired?

Sofia

Hedi Slimane. He’s been my inspiration forever. And Demna. It’s a clear vision that’s consistent and always inspiring. Sometimes it has nothing to do with whether I would even wear what they create. But those two, and the actual Yves Saint Laurent, his work is forever and always where it’s at. For a hundred years.

Lila

Outside of styling, do you have something that severely fills your cup?

Sofia

My children. My son just walked into the room. I look at this human being and he fills my cup - actually my cup overflows every time.

Honestly, my energy is spent on entertaining every day, all day. All the personalities that I find myself to be with and have to create. So at the end of the day, my energy is spent and I want to hide. I want to be cozy and safe. I go to my gym and then I make dinner with my children. That’s the part that I need to come back to myself. I just want my kids.

RAPID QUESTIONS

Lila

What is something that’s widely considered stylish that you disagree with heavily?

Sofia

Oh Jesus Christ. Anything print.

Lila

What is an item you reach for the most in your closet?

Sofia

Jeans.

Lila

What is the best pair of jeans?

Sofia

Vintage. Good luck finding them. You gotta hire me for that.

Lila

A style that will never go out of trend?

Sofia

A white t shirt.

Lila

Okay, you keep talking about vintage. The best vintage store in New York City?

Sofia

I would say New York Vintage.

Lila

Do you have a number one piece of advice for those looking to get into styling?

Sofia

Don’t do it unless you can’t live without it. Don’t do it unless you can’t.

Find Sofia on Instagram: @thesofiakarvela

Xx,

Lila

I have been living at home post-grad in New York City. Famesick could not have come out at a better time–thank you, Lena, for making all of us returning to our childhood bedrooms feel a little less lonely. Living at home means my mother now has a full, uninterrupted view of my everyday habits, and it turns out no twenty-three-year-old should have to have their routines displayed in high definition for their mother to pick apart. With this comes annotations of my spending habits. On multiple nights, I return to her in her reading glasses and a printed-out copy of my bank statement, wielding a red pen like a sword. My defense, usually delivered while laughing nervously, is that it is not my fault I spend most of my money on manicures and clothes when she is the one who gave me the taste for both. She brought me to the nail salon at six to get bubblegum pink lacquered onto my tiny little fingernails and pulled me out of school to attend sample sales.

She created this monster. Now she has to live with the consequences.

The second part is particularly true. My mother was a working mother, like many are. But she was also a woman with priorities. And high up on that list: sample sales. My babysitter did not work mornings, and inconveniently, that is the best time to line up for one. So my mother would call the office, say she was running late, and then whisk me away to Soho at 8 AM to stand in line for an Isabel Marant sample sale. It wasn’t just about the logistics of not having someone to drop me off at school; this was bonding for us. We would pick up croissants, listen to music from my iPod, and then, once the mayhem was over, she would drop me back off at school. I was always disoriented being dropped back into a classroom full of normies with normie moms who, presumably, had spent the morning doing something deeply unglamorous.

It was on mornings like these that I first got glimpses of grown-up women in New York City, with their grown-up careers, earning grown-up salaries to buy grown-up wardrobes, and probably had somewhere grown-up to be after. I marveled as they stormed the converted storefronts in their heeled boots and trench coats, reaching for heavily discounted scarves, sweaters, and skirts. It felt impossibly glamorous.

Then there were the dressing rooms–or rather, the lack of dressing rooms. Women stripping down to slips and underwear with all of the confidence in the world, not looking at anyone else but themselves in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors except to ask, Does this fit weird in the back? Are you taking that? My mother would insist that I do the same. But I was ten, pudgy, painfully shy, and could not imagine anything more humiliating than standing half naked in my green Wednesday cotton underwear. Today, I will proudly disrobe into my adult, now pink, Wednesday cotton underwear and ask the woman next to me what she thinks about a Margiela babydoll top that offers absolutely nothing in terms of nipple coverage. As she gives me the nod of approval, it is never mentioned once that my ass is hanging out.

I love sample sales. I will wait in any line if a seventy-percent-off pair of Marni fuchsia long-hair calfskin Fussbett sabot slides is promised at the end of it. Sample sales feel like one of the last communal experiences left in New York City, apart from riding the subway, except everyone smells better and wants to be there. Everyone–aside from whoever got in through friends-and-family–is held to the same standard, brought to the same level one bag tag at a time. No reservation, no table, no gatekeeping app. Just bodies, sweat, stamina, and whoever has the stronger grip in a tug-of-war over the last Sandy Liang shoebox. Fashion survival of the fittest. But I also love them because they make me feel connected to what I consider the golden age of shopping in New York City.

At least in my imagination, this was from the late 90s through 2012. This was when my mother got her first corporate job in advertising, allowing her to participate in the American economy, along with the onslaught of women in the 90s who joined the corporate workforce and upgraded their closets. My mother was bringing home Prada, Marni, and YSL. Much of which, thankfully, now lives in my closet. But even with a fancy new job, she was still a single woman in New York, balling on a budget, which meant sample sales. My aunt loves to tell me how she would call my mother’s office to ask if she wanted lunch, only for my mother’s assistant to answer and say she’d stepped out to the Jil Sander sample sale and wouldn’t be back for an hour. I recently went to the famous Marni/Margiela/Jil Sander sale with my mother and her best friend. They could not stop regaling me with stories of waiting in lines together, gossiping about Jay McInerney and Keith McNally while clutching their lipstick-stained cappuccinos. When they saw the line wrapped around the block, they declared that they were no longer in their thirties and refused to wait. I, meanwhile, put my headphones in and inched forward for the next two and a half hours.

Sample sales were originally exactly what the name implied: sales of actual samples. Runway pieces. Prototypes. Factory overstock. Slightly damaged goods. Pieces never meant to hit the sales floor. And for decades, they were deeply insider. Until around the mid-’90s, getting in often meant either having been to the actual runway show or knowing someone in their PR department. By the late ‘90s and early 2000s, access loosened, but the yearning for a discounted DKNY top intensified. You could get in through word of mouth, newsletters, private client lists, or a friend who knew a showroom assistant. It was attainable, but you had to work for it. The sweet spot (nothing that is easily found is ever worth it, is it? That is a general rule of thumb in my fashion books, anyway). The information wasn’t inaccessible, but it wasn’t spoon-fed either. You hunted. And that hunt was part of the thrill.

Then the internet arrived, and with it fashion blogs, email blasts, and online calendars dedicated entirely to sample sale schedules. Information spread faster. The lines got longer. You could now find your mother’s pet psychic standing in front of you at the Manolo sample sale. Soon, companies like 260 Sample Sale turned the sample sale into an institution of its own–partnering with brands, organizing logistics, and turning what was once a backroom insider event into a public-facing retail experience.

And now? Now the sample sale has become content.

Social media changed the landscape. Today, brands announce sample sales as they would product launches. Influencers post hauls from friends and family previews before the doors even open. TikToks go viral, showing “what I got at the sample sale,” creating lines five hours long before the sale officially begins. I’ve gone to them. Happily. Sandy Liang, Apparis, With Jéan–I’m guilty. And I don’t necessarily think it’s bad that Gen Z loves sample sales. If anything, I am glad that young people still care about shopping in person. What is different is that many of these sales are no longer really about samples. Often, they’re glorified clearance events, which became painfully clear to me this past January.

I was working my old retail job and chatting with a customer about sample sales, going on about some coat I’d just scored at a recent 260 sale. He casually told me that some brands now manufacture cheap, low-quality products specifically for sample sales rather than simply offloading true samples or excess inventory. I haven’t been able to prove how widespread that practice actually is. But once I heard it, I couldn’t un-hear it. I froze. I felt betrayed. Bamboozled. Spiritually pickpocketed. I felt like a tween learning that designer diffusion lines weren’t actually designer. Like I had been participating in some sacred New York ritual only to discover the magic trick from behind the curtain. Maybe it shouldn’t have shocked me. Fashion is business. Retail is business. But still. The idea that brands could manufacture “sample sale product” on purpose–cheapened versions designed for the frenzy–felt like the final collapse of the fantasy. The sample sale used to feel like a secret amongst insiders and clothing-obsessed people of all generations. You stumbled upon it and kept the details close to your chest. Now it is strategic. What once felt like access now feels like marketing.

Learning this information filled me with immense sadness, because I remain a huge believer in shopping in person (read this article). Shopping has never just been about buying something. It is about the hunt. The boredom in line. The gossip. The text sent to a friend from inside asking Should I get this? The thrill of finding something incredible buried under a pile of rejects. The memory attached to the piece afterward.

My mother and I still go together. I still wait in line. I still get excited. But I miss when sample sales felt a little more hush-hush. A little more stumbled upon. A little more glamorous. When it felt like the people we were waiting in line with were a part of the same cult. I miss when sample sales felt like a secret passed between women. But now the secret is out.

With this marking of a new season comes sales upon sales upon sales. As professional materialists, we have created a love list for you, dear readers, of what we have our summer-glazed eyes on. Shop with caution!! Prepare to be bankrupt by the end of this.

Deji Studios

1. Really good trousers

2. Sweet shorts

3. A summer button up

4. The best dress

5. The best dress in BLUE!

6. A fun texture to mix it up

Moda Operandi (for the dreamers out there)

1. Arm candy

2. Why do we want these???

3. A really good tassel

4. Get these on my feet right now (bonus points for a cute name)

5. A unique sheer

6. Good wash

7. She sells sea shells

8. Funky pattern to switch it up

LESET

1. Boxer pant

2. A sweetie top

3. Not all heroes wear capes (they wear pointelle)

4. Another boxer pant

5. A dress that is sexy yet modest (we want to garden in it)

SSENSE (really just an ode to Gimaguas)

1. She’s fun

2. Dying for this top

3. A dress a day keeps the doctor away

4. Another sheer option

5. These sneakers are made for walking

6. Gogo loves a print

7. Foot jewelry

8. Another stripe

9. Something fun and textural to beat the black top scaries

J.Crew (don’t hate, the deals speak for themselves)

1. Sweet and cute and perfect

2. Good for walking to drinks

3. Professional doesn’t mean boring. TAILORED IS CHIC!

4. What’s a holiday weekend without a J.Crew knit???

5. Another great textured basic

Mondo Mondo

1. Ring ring you need some bling

2. Chunky

3. I love the pink

Shop-Pêche

1. This skirt color heals me

2. Pair it with this top & you’re golden

Rest assured you can now go into MDW knowing where to shop and what to get! We <3 you…..

XX

Lila and Gogo

The closest I got to enjoying the natural world was sitting in a window seat on the West Side Highway as we passed Riverside Park. I was a city kid through and through. On the weekends, rather than going to sports games, I went to the theater. I had a fairly intense bow phase. I exclusively wrote notes with a pink pen. My parents had to drag me kicking and screaming to go on a family hike, which I found offensive. I proudly claimed that nature was uninspiring and unstimulating to me.

Enter Kamryn Renae, a 22-year-old girly girl embarking on the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail, hiking from Mexico to Canada. She is a diva who molds these two worlds of crunchy and fashionista seamlessly, two worlds that I have previously considered entirely disparate. I have been certifiably obsessed with her, along with the rest of the internet. She gets ready every day in pink gear, putting on lipstick and sporting a side-part with pink bobby pins. She casually hikes 25 miles a day, out-walking the average seasoned hiker on these trails.

Kamryn has spoken to the (predictable) hate she has gotten online, exclaiming that people assume women can’t just go and do something that men can, especially in pink. She is targeted for using her femininity as an infantilizing performance and ultimately clickbait. While she addresses that she is not the encyclopedia of long-term hiking, the internet has a lot to learn from Kamryn’s patriarchal callout of how we view athleticism and femininity as distinct. Cute girls can also do hard shit, so to speak. Her viral getting ready to hike with me videos include hair tutorials, a skincare routine, and painting her nails. These videos attract the most hate. Of course, if a muscular man who jumped from the pages of an REI catalogue to the trail started posting his day-to-day hiking adventures, no one would second guess their readiness. Then again, no one would care to begin with.

This notion of merging crunchy athleticism with pink femininity intrigues me. Perhaps you have heard of this quote:

“Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands.”

This movie, woman, and an aesthetic I have grown up on shaped my notion of defying the patriarchy, one pink bikini at a time. It taught me how the pink femininity that I have been innately drawn to can really act as a form of defiance.

Without much warning, my aversion to the natural world shifted this past year. Yes, it’s probably LA, but I’d like to think I am also maturing into a well-rounded city kid. I’m attempting to hike every morning. I even recently embarked on a four-day journey to a National Park with my parents for the sole purpose of hiking. That being said, I still fervently felt misaligned with the aesthetic of modern-day hikers, until Kamryn came into my life. I simply did not want to wear “functional” clothing that made me feel dead inside. No offense to my gorp core babies.

Kamryn’s videos inspired me. For the first time, I thought of exercise as fashionable - but NOT in the Alo way. Yesterday I put on lipstick before an exercise walk. I felt alive. I took it a step further and side parted my hair with bobby pins. My body tingled. The icing on the cake was when I put on a *what colors?* pair of shorts and a comfortable (non-athletic yet nonetheless functional) top over my traditional, bland workout outfit.

Suddenly I was strutting. I felt girly and more like myself when attempting to touch grass. I was ebullient as I got ready for my hike the next morning in a pink tank top, a feeling I was previously devoid of when I came to athleticism. Unlike the strict dichotomy of city versus crunchy girl, a new third party formed within me. Femininity can be enhanced by athletic engagement, rather than undermining it or requiring a different form of the self to emerge when exercising or in nature. I can love a city and simultaneously appreciate nature without feeling intense imposter syndrome because the words, “Patagonia sale” don’t get me going.

Merging exercise, girlhood, and fashion just might be a way to rediscover the joys of the multiplicities that exist in every city, country, or crunchy kid. Kamryn proves the idea that girlhood and sense of self should extend to every fraction of what you do, because it makes accomplishing difficult tasks easier. AND more exciting. If putting your hair into cute clips before you get sweaty means you’ll feel better, do it. Fashioning the self is just as important as doing the task, as Kamryn so aptly displays. Your personal readiness allows you to be where you are. The next time I go hiking, rest assured that I will be in neon pink.

What I am realizing, however, is that I have a new feeling brewing this Valentine’s Day: FOMO. Normally I throw in dry sarcasms to explain why I love this holiday and perhaps ambiguous clues about my realities, but today all I can think about is the perpetual FOMO NYFW instills in fashion lovers and go-ers. While people sit sighing over Instagram stories of exes past, I’ve spent my past few days scrolling on social media and drooling over the runways of Ralph Lauren, TWP, Tory Burch, Coach, etc. I can’t even be bothered to attend to posts of love when there is high fashion to be watched, observed, and fought over!! I walked around my neighborhood yesterday and saw high school boys in L. L. Bean backpacks buying $20 bodega roses and all I could think about was Calvin Klein. What is wrong with my sinister brain???????? Has NYFW lobotomized any warmth left in me??? Probably.

Even attending fashion shows, presentations, and backstage events is never enough to combat the wishes of being front row at every. single. show. It’s physically impossible yet still a forever dream. This Valentine’s Day I got to run around NYC and landed at a courthouse previewing Alice & Olivia’s FW ‘26 collection. In a sea of pearls and parkas, I finally took a deep breath to take in the day and, more importantly, to feel excited about going home and eating chocolates.

So, dear readers, if you are anything like me and overwhelmed by New York Fashion Week and have barely even processed this day of love, just remember that fashion can be the best form of self-love during Valentine’s Day and all days ahead. A man will never make you feel as fabulous as a new pair of Jimmy Choos! But they can hold your clutch. While the NYFW FOMO is real, I promise you everyone at these events is most excited to go home and eat chocolates, too.

Oh, and you know how Gogo normally writes about Valentine’s Day with me, too? Well, this season our queen has dinner plans.

Xx

This first look feels very reminiscent of my college life colliding with a 2016 reality. Except it is 2026. This is what I’d wear perhaps on a first date or drinks with friends. My pants are tight and leather-appearing. They ride up past my hip bones (gasp) but are made unique with a vintage and reversible belt. No one knows that if you flip it around it is actually red. Pretty cool, no? I pulled a pair of wedges out of the depths of my closet that haven’t seen the light of day since Lesters was my go-to shopping spot on the UES. My jacket is vintage (Madrid), as is my mohair scarf. Same with my fringe bag, too (Copenhagen). I sound like an asshole, I know. My baby tee is the perfect baby tee, made vintage by the fact that I bought it at my first Knicks game with my dad when I was six years old.

This outfit feels very LA to me. I’m into it. The cuff on my left arm makes the entire ensemble for me. It’s very important that the white of my waffle tee is layered in a messy but intentional way atop my denim jacket. My late aunt gave me this denim jacket. She collected pins from everywhere she traveled to and taught me the importance of a denim jacket as a plain canvas. If you don’t paint on it, it’s just basic. My sheer skirt flows seamlessly with my strappy sandals, grounding the look in some dark browns to complement the darks on my graphic long sleeve shirt. This wicker basket must be 800000 years old, but I decided not to get rid of it after this outfit. So I suppose this whole look is vintage, soz.

I can’t express to you just how Lila King this outfit is. Or more realistically, if Lila King had a child with Ralph Lauren. She’s cute yet somehow mature. She’s colorful yet in the brown tonal world. She is an oxymoron, I suppose. She is horse girl. I found this jacket at Kalimera over the holidays and fell in love with its small collar and tiny chest pocket. Bonus points for my Olsen Twin hair tuck. I paired vintage cowboy boots with my belt that I found at an estate sale in Los Angeles - that exclusively sold furniture. If that isn’t divine intervention then I don’t know what is. This somewhat ugly green sweater with a fabulous Ganni-esque collar balances out the whole look. If it was a dark brown sweater, I would’ve yawned. This sweater screams character. It screams that there is more than meets the eye under that delicious coat.

This one might catch you off guard a bit, but I’m into it. Zoom in on the collar. I like that the white of it brings back a light color to the top of the outfit. Very important that it is styled to be sitting on top of the coat, tying everything together. Take if off and you get a sheer baby collared tee, perfect to take the outfit into the night. The boots are the obvious show stopper, so I hid them with dark brown trousers to draw attention back the coat. The coat is from Z*ra, ugh. So sorry. This chunky purple sweater is perfect to me. A classic Lila styling again by folding the coat over so that the purple peaks out of the arms. I also love how when the coat is closed you still get the pop of purple by the waist and the gold buttons from the coat. If you want to feel more Bushwick, add a messenger bag, but put the strap on the inside of the coat so just the bag hangs out of the bottom.

This one feels controversial and spicy and perhaps ugly? I posed how I felt. My pointy feeling square toed boots were buffed just for you. I forgot I owned these orange tab Levi’s, which was a pleasant surprise when I was looking for a dark vintage wash with a bootcut feel. A cowhide belt from Upstate NY never fails, especially white the whites and darks tie the boots and top together. Should we talk about the top? My sister came in and told me I looked like our gynecologist on call. I couldn't tell if it was a compliment because our gynecologist happens to be the best dressed person I know, or a diss because she certainly can’t be wearing vintage Prada when she is “on call.” I think the geometry is fun. Who doesn’t love a cape? It’s drama. I added a statement broach because I wanted to feel alive.

I started to build this outfit around my striped Marni button up (another gift from my aunt). I added a Geel layering top - I must have something with purple and collars right now. As you can see, I couldn’t decide what I really wanted in this outfit. Did I want the black Marni button to be the statement? Did I want the Geel top to hide it? I decided to distract myself by throwing on a boxy leather jacket from the men’s section of Savers in Middletown, CT. An old college relic. I of course added a baseball cap and matched a more “grown up” bag with the look. Sure, I could wear this Geel top with no bra and low rise vintage Levi’s, but I could also try and play with it. Maybe I should circle back to this look.

Anyway, I sincerely hope you enjoyed a professional Lila King style out, my beloved &tosters. Isn’t is somewhat gratifying to read an entire fashion Substack and not be provided with one link?! If you hate it, I’m so sorry. If you love it, you know where to find us. Happy NYFW. Happy winter. Happy day!

Xx,

Lila

Gogo and I typically have a tradition of writing an “Ins & Outs” list of the upcoming (which you can read here).

Things that held true? That these were certainly in our “ins” of 2025:

Leaving voicemails. I am happy to say that I was an avid voicemail leaver in 2025, especially considering that I now sit in a car regularly and feel like talking 24/7. You don’t answer? Check your voicemail. You probably have an insane homemade song from yours truly waiting for you to listen to and ultimately lower your volume to. I deem thee worthy of coming into 2026 with me.

Horses, pearls, and power tools. I can’t stress enough how fundamental these three have been throughout my year. I am happy to say that in 2025 I actually used a power tool while wearing pearls to hang up a horse print of mine in the Catskills. Read it and weep!

Soups and stews. A butternut squash? YUM. Ate it aggressively this fall. A corn bisque? I had the best one I have ever had in San Diego this past September. A chicken noodle? My mom made one during Thanksgiving and all I could think was that life doesn’t get much better than this.

Law school. Suddenly every Government major wants to be a lawyer, and we are happy to say that being a paralegal was 2025 &tost approved. Shoutout to our studious babies who look chic while they get ready for their oh-so-”in” paralegal 9-5 gig.

I can go on and on to simply prove that our list of “ins” largely held through, for the most part. Shoutout 2025 for pushing me over the edge of accepting messiness, drinking sugary coffee bevs, purposefully ordering mezcal, bald guys, and being detached. I also now use cash regularly, which I remain convinced makes me the chicest person alive, or possibly abhorrent for believing that at all.

Gogo and also held steadfast to our list of “outs” for 2025, such as:

Messenger bags. We graduated seamlessly from the cross body to the pocketbook, so as not to disrupt our aura.

Being very tall. It simply wasn’t the energy for 2025.

Bleached eyebrows. Every time I had the thought to bleach my eyebrows, I remembered that I am due back on planet earth.

No makeup-makeup. Thankfully Gogo taught me the power of a full beat. You couldn’t catch me dead talking about a light look of makeup. 2025 meant we wanted everything to be enhanced and sculpted with glitter on top.

Sinus infections. Shoutout to my deviated septum babies. I stand with you!!

Needless to say I stayed true to my “outs.” There were no music festivals, no schedules, no checking in, no concepts of de-bloating, and absolutely no heatless curls. Baggy pants were out (dare I say we predicted the rise of the skinny jean again). Finally, no black coffee!!!!!!

Putting our incredible lists aside, 2025 felt like watching the first two hours and forty minutes of the Titanic (right before the ship sinks) knowing what is coming and not looking away because it’s kind of an incredible plot. We never got to the sinking part, but we got damn near close.

Gogo and I finished our academic journeys hand in hand, got hired, fired, quit, broke up, got broken up with, started a full time job, avoided freelance, became freelance, hustled, lived at home, moved out, bought a car, accepted the upcoming $3.00 subway fare, and moved our &tost empire over to Substack, all while still having under 300 Instagram followers.

I purchased over six new accent coats, two large hobo bags - one being a vintage Ferragamo that, yes, fits a Macbook - and my first pair of Solomons. I traveled Europe for a month, and I worked NYFW while also being a hostess on the UES. I installed my first photography exhibition in Upstate NY. I put a pink sparkle license plate frame over my car. So yes, 2025 has been formative, to say the least, and I’m not wishing for it to extend any longer.

I have a theory about ages and years that suggests certain numbers carry a particular weight, affecting how carefree a year feels. 2025 is halfway through the decade since 2020 and inching closer to 2030. It shares the spotlight with notable milestones like 10, 25, 30, and 90. But what about 2026? Who cares about the number 26? The same applies to age: 21 was fun, but what about 20, 19, or even 17? Those years rocked. The same goes for 2021, 2022, and 2023-2024. And now 2026 - it’s the underdog that might just turn out to be the best year yet.

So, dear readers, here is an official &tost list of the “Ins & Outs” of 2026:

Ins:

• The Kindle

• Swans

• Citi bikes

• Legos

• Being in finance

• French manicures

• Extreme reactions

• Bar/Bat Mitzvah

• Collaging

• Skinny jeans…?

• Upper West Side AMC post flood

• Lockets

• Aggressively rosy cheeks

• Dogs in clothes

• Field trips

• Bell bottoms

• Hustling

• Geodes

• Not brushing your hair

• Malls

• Always having candy on your person

• Rent (the musical)

• XL belts

• Pigs in a blanket

• Turtles

• Billboards

• The Mafia

• Flannel

• VSCO

• The Muppets

• French braids

• Iphone games

• Pottery

• Big lunches

• Monotone pastel colors

• Meditating

• Hershey’s chocolate bars

• Fringe

• New Jersey

• Either really long hair or really short hair; nothing in between

• Dogs in purses

• Scented paper

• Jeopardy

• Sneaker heels

• Yacht clubs and resorts

• Jude Law

• Putting sunscreen on your hands before a gel manicure… stay safe

• Cabs

• The Nuts Factory

• Eating salt plain

• Tiny things

• Magazines

• Swedish things

• Sassiness

• Your 30s

• Stripes

• Magnets

Outs:

• Chunky sweaters

• Restaurants that only seat you when your whole party has arrived

• Chrome nails

• SSENSE

• Dairy alternatives

• Bluetooth

• Being aware of the time

• Art Basel

• Muscles

• Cutting cuticles

• Weed gummies… grow up and smoke a joint

• Cats

• Not dressing up for themes

• Cottage cheese

• Emails

• Square-toe heels

• Greek Yogurt

• Sleep schedule

• Going viral

• Beige

• Work from home

• Matcha

• AI

• Neck scarves

• Mid Century Modern

• Group chats

• Wicked … I’m sorry

• Micromanaging

• 8 hours of sleep

• Jell-O Shots

• Not wearing jewelry

• The “economy”

• Botox

• Comparing screen times

• Cowboy boots

• Plain white t-shirts

• Working at a gallery

• Paint and sip

• Labubus PLEASE

We love you, babies! See you in 2026!

Xx

The other day, I got a notification that fellow Substacker Danielle Jaculewicz (shoutout Bitching More & Enjoying Less) had posted a new essay. She wrote about receiving an iPod touch for Christmas when she was little and how no gift has ever given her the same hit of dopamine since. It immediately sent me spiraling — not about technology, but about my own deeply embarrassing relationship to Christmas presents, and let me tell you, I’m not proud of it. Here’s my red flag: I care about gifts. Like, really care. Deep down, if I’m disappointed on Christmas morning, I need to take some time alone to regulate. If you choose to keep reading, please take this confession with a grain of salt; otherwise, I’m going to come across as the most ungrateful brat imaginable (and not in a good way).

My family has always taken Christmas extremely seriously. We’re not particularly traditional people, but December 25th is sacred to us. Our routine is so fixed it might as well be choreographed. We open presents slowly, deliberately, savoring every last parcel until the sun goes down and it’s finally time for dinner. The intensity with which we approach Christmas is foreign to my mother, but not to my father. In fact, it’s entirely his fault. He grew up in a country-club neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio, where WASPs ran the culture, and Christmas was treated like an Olympic event. It is not my fault that I care this much. It’s how I was raised.

My intentions are always pure, but sometimes my body betrays me. I physically cannot hide my disappointment when a gift doesn’t meet my expectations. Take this formative trauma, for example: when I was about seven, our family friends came over for a pre-Christmas gift exchange. Their daughter was my age, so naturally, we were besties. My mom and I picked out a gift for her that we knew would change her life — the Barbie from Twelve Dancing Princesses. You know the one. It was a huge deal. An even bigger deal because I wasn’t allowed to have Barbies.

As I wrapped it and slid it under the tree, I fantasized about what I might receive in return. A Barbie, too? A Polly Pocket? Oooh — maybe Orbeez! When my friend opened her gift, she was euphoric. Then it was my turn. I ripped back the paper and saw… a Fancy Nancy book. One I already owned. I immediately burst into tears. They were violent, uncontrollable tears. Mortified and desperate not to seem ungrateful, I sobbed, “Thank you, I love it so-ho-ho much.” I have never been allowed to forget this moment.

This behavior is understandable from a seven-year-old. From a twenty-two-year-old? Not so cute. I wish I could say I’ve grown out of it, but unfortunately, I have not. Now, when I carefully unpeel tape and wrapping paper only to find a feminist-themed calendar, a shirt my mom bought for herself but wrapped for me, or a book I already own, that same familiar heat rises in my throat. My cheeks flush, my chest tightens, and I deliver my annual Oscar-worthy performance: “I love it.”

I know I’m not alone in this (shoutout Danielle; shoutout my fellow non-practicing Christians who feel the same low-grade Christmas resentment). Yes, some of this is good old American consumerism baked into our Gen Z brains, but I also think Christmas — as we know it — is meant for two life stages: when you’re a kid, and when you have kids of your own. The Christmases in between are… strange.

We don’t believe in Santa anymore, so a chunk of the magic evaporates. At the same time, it feels vaguely absurd to buy piles of gifts for anyone over the age of eighteen. This in-between era turns Christmas into something reflective rather than magical — a yearly reminder of how it used to feel. That nostalgia is bittersweet, which is why disappointment hits harder. When the presents fall flat, it isn’t really about the gift. It’s about your inner child realizing, once again, that Santa isn’t coming back.

So if, on Christmas morning, you feel that familiar pang of resentment toward your mom bloom in your stomach, try to give yourself some grace. It’s just your body processing the fact that belief has faded, magic has matured, and joy no longer comes packaged as neatly as Zhu Zhu Pets.

Happy Holidays, &tosters! The time has come for our annual gift guide. Whether it’s for the Bi-Coastal Baby or Hostess in your life, we have got the goods for you. So take a scroll, and also please take a grain of salt because, yes, we see these prices too. See you under the mistletoe!

P.S. Yes that is Kris Jenner in our cover photo

Lily Bass

Personally, this is my favorite character from the world famous program, Gossip Girl; she is chic, timeless, and knows where the money is (in the painting Rufus bought with Ivy Dickens’s 1.1 MIL). So whether it is your mother, boss, or super mature friend, make sure to buy the Lily Bass in your life a gift that matches her class.

1. LL Bean Monogrammed Button Down, 2. Chanel Hand Cream, 3. Julietta Necklace, 4. La Bonne Brosser brush, 5. COS Wool Triangle Scarf, 6. Patricia Green slippers

Trackstar Star

We all know and love the little TikTok show that popped up on our FYPs where people try to name the artist of a song for double or nothing. These gifts are for the nerd in your life who would win you a jackpot on Trackstar, and who's Spotify Wrapped put you to shame.

1. Wildflower Airpods Case, 2. Crosley Parker Radio CD Player, 3. DJ Board, 4. Victor Broadway Bluetooth Jukebox Speaker & CD Player, 5. Ticket Master Gift Card, 6. Imogen Heap Cameo

Bi-Coastal Baby

This one is dedicated to our newest bi-coastal baby, Lila King. A girl who splits her time between the Big Apple and the Golden Coast needs to be equipped for not only the beach, but a five hour plane ride, too.

1. Business and Pleasure Beach Towel, 2. Sandy Liang Track Pants, 3. Jet-Setter Case, 4. Sex and Rage by Eve Babitz, 5. Officine Bully Hair Pin, 6. Bag-All Packing Cubes

The “Creative Director”

First of all, if there is a creative director in your life, their job is a gift enough. Just kidding! A creative director can really mean anything (no shade), so think of this as just the boss in your life who has a fire Pinterest. Personally, we don’t feel respectful of them right now. We are jealous.

1. Croc Laptop Sleeve, 2. Jelly Clear Tote, 3. A Brick, 4. Gem Stone Pill Box, 5. Rowenta Steamer, 6. The Big Book of Chic

Hostess With the Mostest

The Ina Garten, Martha Stewart, Meredith Hayden, what have you. Her house always smells good, her cheese is always the perfect spreading texture, and her dish ware is always as stylish as Iris Apfel.

1. Smythson Thank You Cards, 2. Resin Cheese Knives, 3. Place Cards, 4. Pistachio Cream Panettone, 5. Hangover Ash Tray, 6. Fruit Bowl

West Village Zookepper

A girl walks into L’Artusi after drinks at Bar Pisellino with a faux fur jacket and animal print tights. She thinks she rules the world. She’s unique in Murray Hill, but in a sea of animal print and fringe below West 4th Street, perhaps she basic. We love her nonetheless.

1. Rixo London Coat, 2. Bloomingdale’s Zebra Gloves 3. Rouje Zebra Bag, 4. Beaded Skinny Scarf, 5. Reformation Cheetah Tights, 6. Apparis Faux Fur Coat

Young at Heart

We all love to be a little coquettish, but this girl brings it to the next level. Sometimes you may wonder if you had the same hair bow as her in the first grade, but that’s why you love her so much. She’s always down to have some good ol’ innocent fun.

1. Salt Water Taffy, 2. Moda Operandi x Leandra Medine Tights, 3. Giant Bode Hair Bow, 4. Relax Lacrosse Shorts, 5. Sandy Liang Long Johns, 6. Glass Microwave Popper

Club Rat

On another note, this girl is a bit more, shall we say, mature. She knows the bouncer, she knows who’s palm to grease, and her digi camera roll holds many treasures. Her RBF may be deathly, but she’s always got an extra tampon.

1. Lola Digital Camera, 2, Rhode Depuffing Eye Patches, 3. Vogue Eyewear Sunglasses, 4. Vivienne Westwood Lighter, 5. Emily Dawn Long Backless Going Out Top, 6. Dior Long Lasting Eye Liner

Patron of the Arts

Gay uncle? Gay brother? Straight male friend who just made a short film? We’ve got you! For anyone in your life who enjoys the culture that this city has to offer.

1. Metrograph Membership, 2. Chita Rivera Ornament (goes to a good cause), 3. Vintage Mother of Pearl Opera Glasses, 4. Anong Beam Paint Stones, 5. Barbie x Moma Vincent van Gogh Doll, 6. Taste of New York Local Legends Box

Substacker

For the friend who has a Substack. Just some goodies to help them snap the best pics, spend long nights editing on their laptop, and needs a new outfit for each micro-influencer event. Don’t forget, a job lead can always be the gift that keeps on giving, too.

1. Wildflower Camera Bling, 2. Xuclar Mug, 3. Loewe Oregano Candle, 4. Jimmy Fairly Blue Light Glasses, 5. Rent the Runway Subscription, 6. Boii Studios Pajama Pants, 7. A Job (jk)

Girl You Know With a Blog that Rhymes With “Mand Most”

Enough said.

1. Dries Van Noten Zebra Hand Held Mirror, 2. Monogrammed Tuxedo Shirt, 3. Dolce and Gabanna Blue Rhinestone Bag, 4. Rabanne Eye Shadow, 5. Sea Shell Barstool, 6. Lace Midi Dress

Today I write to you fresh off the plane and back on the East Coast. I moved to Los Angeles, by the way. Xx.

I bet you have never heard of a New Yorker purposefully moving to LA. I haven’t either.

This is exactly how I thought moving would look like:

This is my reality:

Kidding!

For the past decade, I have intensely studied every Babitz book and collection of short stories while drooling over the golden days of Old Hollywood and Chateau Marmont. I have always said I would move to Los Angeles after I graduate from college. I’d drive a baby blue Prius and exist solely in flip flops. All throughout high school and college, my friends had to hear how much I didn’t align with NYC (bullshit) and how the second I had free will, I would book my one-way ticket (seemingly the truth). After being here for a little over a month, I am not wearing flip flops everyday and certainly don’t have a magical Prius. I don’t even have a bedside table. What I do have is a tiny closet taken over by a true fashionista: bags are hanging on makeshift hooks behind sliding doors, shoes are stored in my bathroom, and my coats are shoved on top of the washer and dryer (can you believe I have a washer dryer???). Now, when one does the laundry, they must rummage through a maze of ballet flats and red pointy boots to find the tide pods—a tactile art, indeed. In my luxurious new home, I was the one allotted the tiniest bedroom, and so every day, I am faced with a space so clearly not conducive to my excessive materialism. I yearn for the times when I had a larger closet and my mom nearby to tell me to get rid of clothes I no longer wear. The irony isn’t lost on me, either: I moved to a new city with supposedly “more space,” yet I find myself in a bedroom that mimics NYC style living conditions.

My goodbye to New York was with haste and borderline manic energy. It felt more like a breakup, except I didn’t ask New York to return my items in a small bag, no one wrote a heartfelt letter, and there was no talk of no-contact; I’ve already been back and am going back in two weeks! I am proving to be the toxic ex.

I guess in my exit, I ghosted this city. Or, it ghosted me. The idea of moving came to fruition when I felt myself regressing and decided on an arbitrary date to move coasts.

Forget tying up loose ends, I left them to rot.

My final goodbye with Gogo was nonexistent. We didn’t talk about the impending doom of perpetual separation. During our facetimes from opposite coasts, we have prolonged, confused eye contact that alludes to unspoken questions of “why did you move, Lila?” and “when will you be home, Lila?”

Some cool things that I have experienced in my new life: nature. I’ve gone hiking and now read outdoors. I’ve also gone to Bar Secco upwards of five times, which makes me a very specific LA trope, but ultimately a legend. I’ve spoken to a woman who lives with flying squirrels and bought a car by myself — which ended up being faulty and left me stranded not once, not twice, but three times in the middle of major roads. I have been to four concerts. Multiple people have claimed to “not recognize me” because of my “glasses.” I still walk to work, which is pretty epic.

While everything I am saying may have a tinge of negativity, I have been so busy that it is neither negative nor positive. It’s just -ive. I had to see fellow post-grads from years past go through the first few months of being an adult and have the crash of the century. Surprise, folks! It happens to the best of us, including yours truly. Waking up and going to bed and solely working, even though I love the job, is just as jarring as Timmy’s Vogue cover. You’re astonished, disgusted, but can’t quite look away.

The largest shift that moving to LA has instigated is my inability to figure out what I want to wear every day. Questions float around in my head like, “do I even have style?” It’s bleak out here. I don’t even want to go shopping! My official big-girl-job started a month ago, where I’ve now had to grapple with a work “uniform,” balancing pre professionalism and brand suggestions with maintaining a sense of self. Every day I walk down my stairs (yes….stairs!!!) and my roommates look perplexed as I appear in an outfit entirely unlike anything I have worn before. Since moving and working in a studio, I’ve suddenly started craving oversized blazers, tucked in shirts, monochrome tonals, collars, high waisted pants, and slightly heeled boots. Take a look at my moodboard:

The Olsen Twins that filled my past mood boards have been swept aside, making room for my apparent Jane Birkin-inspired reality. I’m in no way mad about it, it just is incredibly unlike who I believed myself to emulate. The funny part is, nothing in my closet mirrors these pieces, and because I do have about eight million monthly bills, getting these pieces is out of the current equation. But why do I want them? What is it about the workforce that makes me suddenly want my pants to sit above my hips rather than below my waist? Is it freeing myself from the shackles of a Liberal Arts mindset and embracing the real world, or has my perception of reality somehow morphed in the past two months? If college Lila could see this moodboard, she would laugh and tell me to take that tiny accent scarf and throw it back to oblivion. So the weighted question remains: Is it LA????

As you can see, my sense of self has certainly deteriorated thus far, but not in an inherently negative way. Coming to LA means I am in leggings (yikes!) and a fleece in the mornings for a hike, tucked in high waisted pants and exposed collars during the workday, and a discombobulated and confused ensemble that reflects the internal turmoil of myself deciphering who I am from 5-9PM. It feels like it would be easier to climb Mt. Everest than to pick what I want to wear on the weekends, which normally ends up being nothing short of un-amazing. I end up looking like a clone of East LA as I do anxious laps around bars in an all black baggy outfit.

Getting dressed in NYC required me to be experimental yet practical – a girl can’t go from the upper parts of Manhattan to deep Brooklyn in a mini skirt during the winter. Yet in LA, the sky’s the limit in an oppressive way. Feeling open to experimenting on a whole new coast, which really is a whole new world, has done the opposite of inspire me; it has stifled me. I feel as though I don’t even have a sense of reality or personal style.

Gogo says I should lean into it, that uniforms can be fun, and I should allow myself to have multiple dressing personalities during my day, week, and year, depending on where I am. But for someone like me, who likes to have a plan and know exactly what is coming next, I can’t help but feel dismayed upon peering into my closet and seeing sheer randomness. When that would have inspired me in a small New England town, it now discourages me in a city where the sun is out 24/7.

Perhaps it is because I am in a period of change and growth. Ironically, this time of transition article is being written in my childhood bed in New York City right now. I joke that I won’t feel settled until April, when I will finally have a month with zero travels. So my goal right now? Find out how to weave East Coast Lila into my current West Coast reality. Perhaps my ultimate goal should really be to not feel so pressured to fit into one way of dressing. Moving and hyper analyzing my closet, decorating an apartment, and overall thinking too heavily about what it is I want has left me yearning for constant aestheticism. I am thinking too much about things, taking my move out on my closet which has done nothing but serve me and shower me with beautiful fabrics. I am hoping that as time comes, I won’t feel like bracing myself for craving a blazer or a collar, and that I will still feel myself if I don’t go to Bar Secco in my LES coded baggy pants. I have to grow up at some point, don’t I?

Happy Autumn!

The degrees have gone down and the layers have gone up, but I find myself still thinking about the summer. What did it hold in store for our little island of Manhattan? The answer: small, uncomfortable bars that acted as a magnet to girls in ties and tabis. What is it about a dingy scene that has our Substack influencers jonesing so much? Let’s have a think, shall we?

During the summer of 2024, I crashed with my friend Sadie while my apartment was rented out. Remember that? It was a heatwave, and every 21-year-old was antsy. In our deeply air-conditioned cave, we decided to throw on ‘Meet Me in the Bathroom’ — the documentary love letter to the downtown music scene that birthed The Strokes, Santigold, Karen O, Interpol, and LCD Soundsystem, essentially the holy canon of Indie Rock. It was gritty, sexy, chaotic. We were impressionable.

And like any good impressionable girls, we wanted in.

So I smudged on some eyeliner and red lipstick with the blind confidence of someone who thinks less is more doesn’t apply to pigment. We hailed a cab and made our way to Time Again — the then-new bar on the corner of Canal and Forsyth that was getting name-dropped on Instagram captions faster than you could say “downtown cool.” Started by Alec Reinstein (also known as the rapper Despot) and Nick Poe, Time Again has that specific type of aura — the kind that makes you think you’ll accidentally bump into the next Julian Casablancas or at least a DJ.

What was this place? Where did it come from, and how did it arrive so soaked in clout? Sadie had heard about it from a friend, who had heard about it from a friend, who probably faced a sea of daggering eyes when they walked through the door for not wearing Connor Ives. The marketing was non-existent, which was, of course, the marketing. It had that distinct mix of stripped-down austerity and unbothered exclusivity that screamed: If you know, you know. Bryan Kim from The Infatuation put it best: “This place offers the bare minimum—scuffed floors, a few neon lights, boxes of Tecate stacked in the corner—and it’s the ideal spot to loiter, chat, and act casually exhausted.”

We did not have a plan. We took RuPaul’s advice and just let the city make a plan for us. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and there was fun to be had. Outside, the sidewalk was spilling with slinky girls in black sunglasses. Within five minutes, I was at the bar ordering their sandwich from their most recent chef collab — but they were out of it. I pivoted to a margarita and found Sadie perched like a nymph on one of the infamous red plastic stools.

Let me say something about those stools.

They are evil. They are flimsy. They are everywhere. You can’t escape them. You can’t look at them the wrong way, or they will crumble. And crumble mine did — right underneath me, as I attempted to sit down with the grace of a girl who doesn’t get into fights at 260 Sample Sales. I hit the ground, hard. The cool girls were staring at me. Sadie was staring at me. The hot bartender was staring at me. And the worst part that can happen when you take a spill happened: someone who wasn’t my potential husband helped me up and offered me a glass of wine because she “felt bad.” I left with a bitter taste in my mouth, and that bitter taste has never quite left. No Julian Casablancas for me.

Time Again has become the kind of place I go with friends out of social obligation. I’ve now fallen off those stools multiple times. And before you accuse me of being clumsy, please note: at least three of my friends have met the same fate.

And yet... we keep going.

Why? Because the scene is undeniable. I’ve seen Nicholas Braun lurking by the bar. Iris Law floating past the bathroom. Alex Consani in a cloud of perfume. The place is happening, but it demands penance. There are now staffers who literally walk you — walk you — to three-by-three patches of pavement to fit you and your four friends into. It’s a ritual of discomfort. A punishment we willingly accept to stay close to the clout. I have to ask: how much are we willing to suffer to stay relevant, myself included?

Call me pretentious, but Time Again is a stage. And the actors? Transplants showing off their vintage Chloe Paddington, aggressively gesturing about the dance show they were just paid thirty dollars to be in off Canal. Oh! And they’re technically bi-coastal.

But something shifted this summer.

Sure, the Consani-core girls are still practically running the place. But now? Williamsburg power couples are in attendance. Rare Nikes, matching acne scarves, two French bulldogs, and a shared Notes app calendar. Perhaps I have just softened with my new college degree, or maybe the scene is shifting just enough to pique my interest again.

So, I decided to put on my sceniest and trendiest outfit (all With Jean, of course) and I trekked down to Canal, just north of Dimes Square, to take note of what was happening around me. My partner-in-crime and &tost royalty Lila King agreed to tag along. Here are some actual, barely edited, Notes app observations from that night, as well as some pictures:

• Immediately spotted Samuel Hine, GQ’s Global Fashion Editor. Perhaps all is not lost.

• A pair of literal children with their hipster parents — a refreshing sight, actually.

• Seated next to me are three Italian men loudly complaining that “Europe is trash now” and “America is more authentic.” Sure.

• On one side of the bar are three girls with three fuck-ass bobs, and on the other side are blazer-clad blondes riding the coattails of the espresso martini train.

• Hot people. So many hot people. It’s undeniable.

• Ultimately, we are dining in a parking lot. That has not changed.

• A girl I hadn’t seen since sophomore year asked if I was going to a party I wasn’t invited to. Amazing. Red plastic stool is still intact.

• No Labubu in sight. A small win.

• “New York” by Addison Rae is now on the speakers, and suddenly I feel OK.

So what have we learned? A few things:

1. Dimes Squareaholics love things so barebone, the places become borderline hostile (see: The Stools).

2. The cheugs are circling, especially the men. So hold onto your Cynar Spritz and make room for a vintage Carhart bomber jacket scooching in next to you.

3. The vibe is still a little off, but undeniably magnetic.

I still don’t like Time Again. I resent the broken stools and parking lot backdrops. I side-eye the performance art levels of self-awareness. I deeply miss seating that supports the human spine. But I’ll keep going. Because I am just as thirsty for the scene as the next girl. And who knows? Maybe the next Julian Casablancas really is lurking behind the bar, waiting to hand me another glass of wine.

Where to next?

I’m taking suggestions. Preferably somewhere with normal chairs.

Last week, I went into the city and worked at New York Fashion Week. That’s right, read that phrase again. Your humble &tost-er worked behind the scenes, rather than silently judging looks behind her laptop. As a huge stepping stone in my fabricated fashion career, I applied to be a NYFW Intern for L’AGENCE on February 8th, 2024 and made my way into the city to provide my unpaid labor for a glance behind the scenes of Anna Wintour’s world. I was ready to break up dramatic model fights, hold a clipboard and shake my head at the NYU transplants pretending to be on the list, and in all honesty, steal some shoes. Sue me!

On the call sheet I was provided with the day before the show, my only instruction was to show up at the venue at 10:30am and wear all black. In classic Lila fashion, I put on my tassel loafers and decided to make the most out of the fashion constraints by throwing on an off-the-shoulder black sweater with my vintage Max Mara buckle trousers. I tied on my chunky heart necklace and put my hair into clips, finishing the look off with my conspicuous Edna-esque glasses. Monotone but dramatíque, if I do say so myself.

The morning of, I took the Q down, where I was squished between finance bros on the least-sexy train in all of New York City. My mode of transportation was contingent upon speed and efficiency, not glamor. Upon arrival, I met the other handful of fashion girls working for L’AGENCE - to my surprise, there were only a few FIT and Parsons people, the majority commuting in from large state schools to get a glimpse of city life. Even more to my surprise, I was in a sea of Zara blazers and business casual boots.

Read into that sentence what you will.

First walking in, I was immediately entrenched in the fast-paced scene. Looking to my right was hair and makeup, where I saw the models in their custom Eberjey robes. Straight ahead of me was the event space itself, covered in wires and camera equipment being set up by men in black caps running around in a frantic state. I was directed backstage, where I was tasked with steaming the clothes before the models put them on. The production coordinator handed me said fashion weapon and my heart started pounding - I had never used a steamer before in my life. Luckily, anyone with an IQ over zero could figure it out, and needless to say I became a pro-steamer. We spent the first hour and a half prepping our models’ styling kit by organizing, hanging, and admiring the clothes. The line itself had several knockouts - a fabulous fur coat, a hand-embroidered red gown, and a tweed pantsuit that instantly reminded me of the genius that is Chanel. Then the moment came when each girl was assigned a model to attend to, identified by a polaroid displaying our names in meager little text next to the image.

The models came into the dressing area and practically stampeded over the dressers, towering above me by almost a foot. I helped mine get dressed behind the curtain in her tweed ensemble with a gold-chain belt and clip-on YSL earrings. After the preliminary dressing was finished, I ushered my model to none other than Sofia Karvela, renowned stylist who first got into the industry assisting the stylist gods of Sex and the City. I watched in awe as she worked her magic, taking the looks from regular to elegant to pristine with bold earrings and a french tuck. I stood by the accessories table to pass her rings and bracelets as she yelled “Odessa, can I have some double stick tape my love?” Calm the environment was not, but there was no shortage of love and appreciation oozing from Karvela. Looking at the makeup and hair room from afar, I saw hair stylists take a collective deep breath now that their job was done, giving massages to assistants and production coordinators who had entered the hot seat.

After styling, all of the models went to walk the pre-recorded presentation, where I saw firsthand how the cameras and drones worked with the lighting team and the Fashion Director to make the brand’s FW24 vision come to life. There was music, heightened voices giving pointed directions to the models, and an ungodly amount of smizing. After the video was recorded, the models positioned themselves around the room to prepare for the guests to come and admire the clothes for three hours. The theme of the presentation was “Into the Woods,” and the event space was decorated floor to ceiling with faux trees and nature paraphernalia.

As guests started to arrive, the interns were ushered backstage, so as not to interact with the influencers, editors, and socialites. Daring to live on the edge, I snuck into the presentation, where I saw the likes of Brooke Shields, Ella Rose, Zanna Roberts Rassi, and Pookie, among others. I walked around the event space with my boxed water in hand, knowing that my job was nearly over and I could start to enjoy myself. I quickly learned that enjoying myself meant standing in the corner as people in $1,000 ensembles walked by me, sporting my my all-black ensemble and L’AGENCE backstage tag, asking me where they could find the bathroom. Glamor! After repeatedly being asked to go back - and attempting to fool higher-ups that I was a different person by taking on and off my glasses - the event ended.

The girls came tumbling in, shivering with bloody feet while I was lounging on the dark leather chaise, topping off my lunch of seared tuna and kale salad with the matcha churros the brand ordered for our lunch. If I have learned anything from my stint at fashion stardom, it's that the life of a model is hard. Also, bring to-go containers to take food in, because if you're not getting paid, you might as well take advantage of the food for the next 3-5 days.

Back on the Metro North, I left my 24 hours of NYFW behind me and made my way back to suburban Connecticut. Previously thinking the fashion world was sparkly and exclusively fabulous was quickly disproven by the early call times and backstage chaos. For a brief moment, I believed that this side of the fashion industry was not for me - any hint of the Devil Wears Prada attitude and I’m running for the hills. When I was walking around the presentation, I could feel the social anxiety oozing out of guests, trying to assess who they should talk to based on Instagram followers and the quality of their coats. I had never been in a space that adhered to social hierarchy contingent upon what you wore and who you knew. Lucky for me, I was so low on this hierarchy that dare I say I wasn’t even on it.

That being said, I couldn’t stop thinking about the rush that being behind the scenes as a lowly dresser gave me, or the feeling of relief and pride that washed over me after seeing the model I helped to dress stand in the middle of the space that I saw people build from the ground up.

I love clothes and I love schmoozing the crowd, but right now, I prefer being behind my computer, talking to my community of fashion nobodies that adhere to the “no rulez” mindset of the industry. Materialists on the outside, nice people at heart. Who knows, maybe I’ll be back at fashion week as a model …. just kidding!

And no, I didn’t steal any shoes.

Until next season, Fashion Week!

GOGO’S PREDICTIONS:

First of all, we can all breathe because Labubus will have their day of judgment. G.O.N.E. Those gross little monsters will be in the garbage along with all of the nail press-ons you decided to try (not a dig at press-ons, I love them). Maybe this is just me projecting and letting my intense feelings about Labubus cloud my analytical judgement, but here’s hoping. What else will be in the rear-view? Polka-dots. We know em, we love em, but they have had their well-deserved time in the sun, long enough for Princess Polly to get her grubby little hands on them. Butter yellow? GONE. Millennial pink? GONE. Blueberry milk blue? GONE. All the cutesy little pastels and soft colors may still be around for my West Village girlies, bless their hearts, but we all read the article in The Cut, right?

So what won’t be gone? The only way to answer this is to look to the runway. For example, Chloe’s Fall/Winter 2025 show. Chemena Kamali has made her imprint on the fashion house quite clear: boho-chic. Sheer flowing blouses, maxi skirts, heavily textured jackets, and massive sunglasses. For the footwear, one of two options. A chunky platform that will make you see the top of your 6’2 friend’s head for the first time. Or, ground your billowing silhouette with a flat, or better yet, really embrace the nomadic aesthetic and go barefoot. Don’t forget loose, low-waisted belts and tons and TONS of jewelry, specifically chunky bangles and long pendants.

Next up, modern academia. This is a far cry from the sultry academia, office siren, pouty business. This is where academia comes to have fun. All of the preppy building blocks remain the same–corduroy, polos, blazers, church shoes–but the fun comes in with the bold, bright colors and prints, intense layering, and accessories to the max. The inspo comes from the reigning queen, Miu Miu. In their Fall/Winter 2025 show, we can see the color, the prints, the layering. They have been so on top of this that you can see it in their Spring Summer 2025 show. The shirts tucked into underwear, the knee-high socks with pumps! You know who else is worth taking inspo from for this look? The prince of prep himself, Ralph Lauren. Talk about layering for days; knits on button-downs on polos, wrapped together with a tie and sealed with a kiss. Speaking of, ties are here to stay, of course, so make sure to make a stop at your dad’s closet the next time you are getting ready.

What do all these have in common? Two things: Doechii and the mid-2000s. For starters, Doechii at the Chloe show. Her dress was draping down to her ankles, as was her hair, with her cute little toes poking out. The layering of the jewelry and the raccoon pelt was so fabulous, even PETA zipped their mouths (oh! How could I forget? Fur accessories, people!). Doechii at Glastonbury, in Vivienne Westwood, was the ultimate fashion-forward, fun, school-girl prep. The colors were practically bouncing off the tartan pattern of her miniskirt. The theme was the school of hip-hop, and my pencil was in hand. And of course, Doechii rocked the Miu Miu in her 2024 tour. From the spectacles to the polos, she is sporting the brand just as Miuccia intended.

And to culturally locate us in the zeitgeist for just one moment, it makes sense that this is all happening now. We have moved on from the edgy indie-sleaze of 2008-2010, and we have firmly planted our feet in the 2011-2014 era of American Apparel, Gossip Girl, and season 4 of Sex and the City (technically this came out in 2001, but just let me have it). The bright colors, ironic layering, and color blocking will be where we are in the fall. So it’s time to pull out your old Free People, Vineyard Vines, and Ralph Lauren Polo because we are having a 2010s fall, y’all. And I am personally SO excited.

LILA’S PREDICTIONS:

When longtime &tost reader and guest writer Chloe approached me and Gogo in the heat of the summer with a game of fall predictions, my mind lit up thinking about all of the Fall 2025 Ready-to-Wear trends I was looking forward to playing with once the heatwaves of NYC summer passed. While it’s currently late-August, I wrote these predictions starting in July (when it was 95 degrees). Needless to say, I can’t wait to get into fall fabrics and furs with you …. so I present to you, dear readers, what I’m expecting (& possibly hoping) to see in a few months when NYC Fall is upon us. 

While last year was defined by Indie Sleaze, I believe this season is all about elevation: we will see a subcategory of Indie Sleaze focused more on tailoring; a borderline Victorian mode of dressing, if you will. What does this mean? Silk scarves draped around the neck, the summer of sheer dressing being replaced by sheer lace, and Victorian high neck silhouettes. Mama, I’m a prude now!!

I’m expecting the tailored look to exceed all of our mundane office expectations, with colorful pencil skirts emerging from closets – neon orange, bright red, deep electric blue, and pink – paired with ties for all genders and tall socks. LOTS of tall socks (my 4th grade fantasy coming true). We want to dress office-chic. We want to be Blair Waldorf. We need blazers, headbands, and any accessory for elevation. No more dressing like a Lola Young LES-er!

Something I personally can’t wait to get my hands on is a pair of Pirate Boots – the perfect blend of slouch, sleaze, and moto boots – which were all over 2026 Ready-To-Wear and now all over my wishlist. These boots will be paired with suede galore, adding textures to the already in-vogue shades of brown that will continue into our fall.

Finally, in the accessories category, I’m excited to see how people play with belts in all the wrong places. Perhaps they stack three to spice up a Canadian Tuxedo, or find a statement drop-waist belt with gold and silver hardware to add onto a monotone tailored outfit. Circling back to the pirate conversation, I’m excited to see how fashionistas style over-the-top cravats with a fur coat. Think the fabulous flare that Suki Waterhouse embodies, and double it. It’s loose in all the right places and tailor to showcase the figure, it’s textured, it’s LOUD.

So when you think Fall 2025, think this: sheer lace fabrics, tailoring, belts, ties, suede, and pirate boots. Got it?? Check back in in a few months!

Hostessing for Upper East Siders is no joke. I have to wear all-black, have my hair pulled up, and cannot wear sneakers. The restaurant I currently work at serves the likes of A-list celebrities and directors, as well restaurant regulars living exclusively on Park, Madison, or Fifth Ave. These customers style their matching Chanel sets with flats and pearls. Time flies by as I am transported to a time when TikTok and Labubus didn’t exist. I happily people watch as men check their Burberry umbrellas before getting seated and women ask us to add an extra seat for their Birkins. 

Perhaps some of you are also having a stint in the service industry, where every single day you are asked to wear a uniform in 100 degree weather. Perhaps your looks are beginning to feel mundane … Perhaps I can help.  

Welcome to an &tost style out.

Let’s forget about a service industry salary for a moment and daydream of all of the best pieces to wear as a hostess. And even if you aren’t a hostess, I’m sure these links will come in handy to my fellow materialists. From everything from tops to shoes to scarves, this is how you (monochromatically) dress for the dog-day heat.

Clothing:

• GAUGE81 Black Carlow Trousers

• Aya Muse Black Pleated Trousers

• All the Ways Jessica Top in Black

• Our Legacy Black Ragged Vest

• GAP Smocked Midi Dress in Black

• GAP Softspun Rib Midi Dress

• Our Legacy Black Hang Midi Dress

• Deiji Studios Layered Short in Black Stripe

• Deiji Studios Simple Tank in Black

• Deiji Studios Tab Pant in Black

• J.Crew Off-the-Shoulder Top in Stretch Cotton Blend

• J.Crew Cotton Poplin Midi Dress

• J.Crew A-Line Mini Skirt in Black

• GAP Ribbed High Rise Mini Skirt in Black

• Perfect White Tee Harley Boxy Tee

• Reformation Vida Low Rise Pant

• Venroy Linen Panelled Mini Dress in Black

• Levi’s 501 Mid Thigh Cutoff Denim Shorts

• Modern Citizen Bao Organic Cotton Drop-Waist Skirt

• Deiji Studios Ruffle Mini Skirt in Black

• Baserange Black Tav Tank Top

• Baserange Black Folio Midi Skirt

• Baserange Black View Camisole

• Baserange Black Avi Lounge Pants

Shoes: 

• Paloma Wool Gray Pina Ballerina Flats

• Le Monde Beryl Regency Slipper in Black Satin

• Repetto Camille Ballerinas in Black

• Stuart Weitzman Mila Tassel Loafers

• Sam Edelman Michaela Flats

• Jeffrey Campbell Trustee Round-Toe Flats

• BY FAR Black Hans Clogs

• Nicole Saldana Black Isabel Loafers

• Kenzo Black Kenzo-Paris Kenzo Oki Ballerina Flats

Accessories:

• Echo New York Hollywood Square Scarf

• Lost Pattern La Collectionneuse Silk Ribbon Scarf

• Los Angeles Apparel Extra Wide Cotton Spandex Headbands

• Warby Parker Gus Eyeglasses in Polished Gold

• Thistles NYC The Atlas Earrings

• Chunky Resin Bangle on Etsy

• Alexis Bittar Molten Bangle

• Heart Made of Gold Gold-Filled Dome Hoops

• Lina Lennox Organic Silk Oversized Scrunchies

A few days ago, I was with a guy. He picked me up at midnight, just after we matched on an app and exchanged some texts and Snapchats. I wore baggy gray Skims sweatpants, a white tank top with no bra, a light pink silk thong with the words Victoria’s Secret bedazzled on the side, and a fuzzy pale blue sweater from an old Frankies Bikini set. I thought I was giving casual, messy chic. Apparently not. I got into his car, and we drove to an empty street, where we proceeded to make out. Let’s just say this was not a date; it was a sneaky link at best. His hands grasped my waist, his fingers sliding down my stomach until he touched my hips. Which was when he asked me, “Why are you wearing sweatpants?” This question threw me off immediately. I didn’t realize I was sitting across from Miranda Priestly. But we were in LA after all, the land of sensitive men clad in $300 Japanese denim. It was 12:30 in the morning, in his car, with no expectations of chivalry–I was not aware I was supposed to be dressed for the Met Gala. My sweatpants were a serve within context. They bagged perfectly, slightly revealing my thong. He expected something different. That's when I began to ask myself—What do men want? And why should I care?

Does my ass look big in these jeans? Should I wear a thong? A bra? Should I shave anywhere? Everywhere? Do I look feminine? Do I look cool? Would I be into myself?

These are just a few of the questions I pain myself with before meeting up with a man.

As someone who is recently back on the dating scene, it's been over a year since I attempted to paint myself for someone else’s gaze. It feels compulsory to shave before a date—I don’t feel sexy if I don’t. Is something deeply wrong there? One of my Wesleyan professors said that the process of becoming a perfect woman is an uncanny one—one of removing your humanity to be perceived as perfect. I want to remain human…Yet I also want to be perfect. Aware of all this (even after writing a paper about uncanny femininity called “Statues, Gynoids, and Sex Dolls”), I stand in my bathroom shaving myself, brushing my hair, and painting on a perfect face. All before I confront my closet and ask myself, “How do I want to be perceived?”

This is a difficult question to answer when I am not entirely sure who I am. Pinterest offers versions of who I could be, but I never seem to have the right plaid shirt or white bloomers to complete the look. So I stand in front of my closet, considering every version of myself I could be.

Before the first date I went on to launch myself back into the dating world, I frantically sent my friends photos of different outfits–different versions of myself–for the date. I asked at least five friends which one looked the best. I sent them two photos, one of a brown and white polka dot dress that I had just gotten at TJ Maxx (love a steal) and the other, suggested by my best friend, of an oversized Jersey for a team I can't even name, white booty shorts, and my brown Frye Campus boots.

My friends liked both outfits, but ultimately seemed to sway toward the dress, which was what I had originally intended to wear. I wore the dress with black Brain Dead X Adidas sneakers and a red purse. I decorated it with a bag chain I made out of beads, along with numerous key chains that clang obnoxiously when I walk—but that's kinda my thing. I was nervous, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress. The date went well. The guy loved my outfit and told me I was beautiful. But he saw the best version of me. When I got home, I began to ask myself, was the two-hour pre-date routine (which, to be fair, included a fair amount of making TikToks and texting my best friend) something I was going to have to do EVERY TIME I met up with someone? Yikes, I was already tired.

A few days later, I made plans to hang out with a guy I used to have a thing with. The last time he saw me was over a year ago, and I had an orange mullet—I fear that since then, I have tried to make myself employable. So now I was ready to show up with my brown bob and serve a newly grown-up woman. I did my makeup, although I was not particularly happy with it. I've been wearing makeup a lot recently, and it's not doing my skin any favors. I went to look at my closet, again faced with a question—this time instead of asking who am I, the question was who have I become? I quite literally could not answer. So I put on a gray wife-beater, baggy Levi jeans I had recently thrifted at Squaresville in Los Angeles, and embroidered brown cowboy boots that I bought on the side of the street in Mexico City. I put

my hair up in the only claw clip I have, small enough to hold my bob, and called it a day.

When I got to his house, we lay in bed and smoked and talked—eventually he told me I looked older, more corporate. I wondered in my head if an angel had lost her wings. But then he told me I was serving Hillary Clinton mother (confusing but somehow true) and Blair Waldorf. And you know what? Fuck yeah. He also told me he’s over putting on outfits (or as he put it, “throwing fits”). Which I think is a very interesting concept. What does it mean to put on an outfit? His comment seemed to mesh perfectly with the internal conflict I’ve been having over getting dressed for dates.

Since I became single, I’ve been told many things by many different men about who I am— I’m beautiful, I’m hot, I’m scary, I look older. Do these things define me? I can determine how much so. So, when getting dressed for a date or sneaky link, here’s my advice, and boy, do I need to take it myself: WEAR WHATEVER YOU WANT. And if whoever you are into isn't into it, they aren't right for you. Fashion is fun and to some degree a performance, but it's also authentic, an extension of you. I don’t know who I am. You may not know who you are. But let's figure it out together—and keep dating and looking good along the way.

Dark side rooms, pulsating EDM, leather belts, chokers, pixie haircuts, chunky boots. Oversized shirts. No shirts at all. Mesh. SWEAT. Need I say more? Welcome to your insider scoop of Berghain, the most exclusive club in Berlin. From an andtost perspective, of course.

When prepping for my tour-de-Europe, my number one stressor was what to wear in Berlin. I’ve slowly grown to incorporate more monochrome color palettes into my outfits, but I knew that my favorable pops of patterns or ruffled layered mini scarves wouldn’t cut it. “Lila King” doesn’t exactly scream Berlin-grunge. I approached Berlin as a styling exploration, where I had to be wary of both space and general aura. Luckily, I had a few expert tour guides who gave me the best advice, which I am now passing down to you, dear readers.

But let’s cut to the chase. The night we arrived in Berlin was the night — not to mention the irony of going from the utopia that was Copenhagen, straight to the piss-filled streets of Berlin. I felt at home, though. It was Saturday and we were prepared to go to war (stay up past 8:00 AM and really go out). My newly invigorated TikTok page was filled with “what I wore to get into Berghain” videos, with most people looking like they were straight out of the West Village: slick backs and leather micro shorts. I assumed that those who get in regularly maybe weren’t making TikToks about what to wear, so I went with my gut, a quote-on-quote chill look: baggy basketball shorts, a black tank top, and Solomons. And when I say I went with my gut, what I really mean is I kept my Berlin expert and goddess Ava on FaceTime for upwards of two hours as I expressed every aesthetic anxiety going through my head. I threw my hair up into a pony tail and didn’t even bother with a purse.

Our first stop was a bar. My anonymous travel partner (Amelie Boose) and I brought cards and ended up staying for a few hours playing with new friends who claimed to be professional dancers. The difference in our outfits versus the rest of those at the bar, though, was palpable. While it looked like we were ready to go hiking in a goth version of LA, everyone else appeared incredibly normal, wearing colors, baggy jeans, boots and sneakers, button up tank tops, loose band tees. It looked like a happy hour in Bushwick but with a tinge more class. After our game of cards, it was about 2:30AM and Amelie and I decided it was time to go to our first stop. As we stood up, one of our dancer friends asked why we were dressed the same. Immediately we looked at each other and popped our figurative mental bubble: we were wearing the exact same outfit, down to the color of our sneakers and color of our basketball shorts. Maybe our intense height difference or overall manic getting ready state shrouded our perception of what we were each wearing. After that comment, minor anxiety seeped into every move we made. After a few stops in different bars and clubs in various neighborhoods, we finally decided it was time to make our way to Berghain.

To reiterate the energy, it was Saturday night, 4:00AM, and perfectly temperate. You’d expect a massive line, but once we arrived, there was only a couple in front of us — a man and woman who looked to be about 30. The guy was in sunglasses and all black, while the girl had bleached short hair, extensive eyeliner, and wore a cargo-esque mini skirt. They were shuffled right in, as if their presence in Berghain was essential. Once we were finally up, we gave our best nonchalant, stone-faced gazes before one of the bouncers said without hesitation “have a nice night.”

That’s right, this whole thing was absolute clickbait. But how much fun was it to read?! The story isn’t over. Stay with me.

We walked away and started laughing. We came to the conclusion that we didn’t get in because of Amelie’s energy (she attempted to speak to the bouncer in German) and my overall aesthetic (blonde, somewhat bubbly, looks like the kind to carry hand sanitizer in her purse). The sun was up and we had nothing to lose, so Amelie and I changed our hair into extreme side parts and walked back towards the bouncers in an attempt to try again. We came to our senses and also grew icked out by our behavior, and instead found a back entrance and an abyss of red lights and EDM calling our names. Screw the side parts, we wanted to sneak in. As our Salomons carried us to the entrance, suddenly a lengthy man appeared and chased us out. I swear to god he looked like a heroine-chic Santa Clause, only if Santa wore exclusively camouflage. I’m talking shirt, pants, gloves, sneakers. In my memory he was also carrying a large rifle, making the whole situation even more absurd, but alas … I believe reality escaped me at that moment.

We were deflated and decided to sit in the dingy back entrance courtyard where we could see a small sliver of what could have been. I couldn’t stop saying “And so I walked. I walked 48 blocks in $400 shoes,” even though I was wearing shoes that Carrie would physically gag at. But it was 5AM, the sun was rising, and I was tired of making my way around a city that felt as massive as the state of Texas. Our sitting, however, led to one of the best parts of our night and, in retrospect, one of the best parts of the trip overall. We saw who was leaving Berghain and, in turn, who got in over us. It was essentially my journalistic dream.

Men in their 40s-60s stomped out in their big black boots, grazing our curious eyes as we sat there. Their unimaginably hairy bodies were accentuated with leathery harnesses and g-strings. We saw one old man in a bucket hat and fanny pack who looked like he had just been plucked out of touring the Eiffel Tower. One man came out with his black shirt draped over his dripping, sweating body.

These men were massive. They looked like they could lightly flick me and send me flying to the floor. Everyone came out silent with bulging eyes, probably regaining a sense of reality after their all-night experience and probably wondering why they were being studied by two peculiar American girls clearly rejected from the club. We never saw any women emerge, let alone anyone in their twenties.

In a weird way, watching these unexpected men trickle out humanized Berghain for me. As opposed to being a club where Berlin’s version of LES baddies alike join together in their sports sunglasses, it seemed as though the club represents a mode of old Berlin and club life that excludes our generation for fear of becoming too “sceney” (rightfully so). It is a place where old men still get to boogie and take drugs, so to speak, without feeling like they’re being aged out of a culture that once revolved around them. After all, clubbing and having the EDM aura should override outfits, and I guess the hairy old men bring that energy more than an andtost princess.

So while I didn’t get into the “best club in the world,” in a weird way, I’m not that mad about it. I hope that those who got in that night and get in in the future aren’t doing so to write a silly little article. Regardless, I love you, Berlin. You taught me a lot and I have come to the conclusion that, regardless of where I am, it’s probably best if I stick to dressing like myself.

At the time, Wesleyan had the same reputation for activism and eccentricity that it maintains today—but, by all accounts, turned up a few notches. This was pre-endowment boom, pre-fundraising for athletics, and tuition was a fraction of what it is now. Joni Mitchell and The Grateful Dead played shows on campus. Students threw graffiti parties in the tunnels. WesCo, the "artsy" dorm, was clothing optional. The university was a magnet for politically engaged youth responding to the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and second-wave feminism. My mother arrived into that energy fully prepared.

Marxism and anti-materialism were integral to the campus ethos, and though these ideas still circulate today, they no longer define the dominant cultural current. We now exist in an era where capitalism is more visible, personalized, and integrated into everyday life than ever. Consumer behavior—especially among college students—is increasingly tied to convenience, self-styling, and social media. At Wesleyan today, Amazon boxes regularly crowd the porches of student houses, a sight that, according to my mother, would have once been a source of shame. Back then, to be a student with “a lot” was seen as missing the point entirely. Fashion, in that context, wasn’t irrelevant—but it was interpreted through a very different value system. As I spoke to my mom, I began to understand that fashion wasn’t absent from her world; it just operated within an anti-brand, anti-excess, DIY logic. It was expression—just not commodified. What I wanted to explore was: how did we get from there to here? And what traces of that earlier ethos still remain? For context, M is my mother (Marcia) and G is me (Gogo, a family nickname).

G: How did you and your friends think about getting dressed? Was it something that you guys talked about?

M: We didn't talk about it that much. I arrived in '79. And things were much more low-key. People didn't have a lot of clothes, and at Wesleyan, there were definitely “looks.” But if you arrived on campus with, you know, 20 suitcases, that would have been frowned upon.

G: Really?

M: Yes.

G: And why was that?

M: It was not a time when extreme displays of wealth and materialism were cool.

G: Do you think that was specific to Wesleyan?

M: It was a combination of Wesleyan and the 1970s. By the 1970s, I mean, social activism, saving the planet, and making a better world were at the top of young people's minds and were young people's focus, particularly on a campus like Wesleyan.

G: Did you see that change throughout your four years?

M: I did not. I felt like Wesleyan was a bubble. When I graduated and started going to New York more frequently, I understood how much bigger the world of brands and trends really was. I moved to Boston and started working in a professional capacity. So suddenly, I had to quote-unquote get dressed.

My mother went to school during a critical shift for the country: from hippies, love-ins, and self-expression, to Ronald Reagan, neoliberalism, and the war on drugs. I knew this would tie into her life somehow, as when she graduated from Wesleyan, she moved to Boston to go into advertising. From there, once she was exposed to the “bigger world of brands,” she became obsessed with fashion (I should know, I have many of her old clothes). She had to leave Wesleyan to allow herself to indulge in consumer culture. It makes one wonder if it was Wesleyan or the changing of times? I presume a combination of both.

M: But when I was at Wesleyan, we only got dressed up when people's parents came and we went out to dinner.

G: What would you wear?

M: Then I had a couple of dresses, and that was when Laura Ashley was the big thing.

G: But with you and your friends, it wasn't a topic of conversation?

M: It was a topic of conversation, and after I graduated, we were gonna go to Europe. There were certain things that we wanted to go to. We wanted to go to Il Bisonte in Florence. We wanted to go to Laura Ashley in London. We wanted to go to specific stores that we knew about. But part of being at college was, you know, no one had any money, and you didn't live in an environment where people were acquiring material things.

G: But what about getting ready to go to a party?

M: Then, we wore lots of very flowy hippie things. My favorite outfit, of which there is a picture, was on the cover of the Wesleyan catalog. I’m wearing hiking boots, a maxi skirt my sister brought me from Kenya, and a vintage cashmere sweater.

G: But at least for me with my roommates [at Wesleyan], for example, getting ready for a party is a ritual, you know? And I enjoy it more than the actual party. That wasn't a part of it for you guys?

M: No. And most of our living situations were co-ed. I think I was in co-ed living situations all four years. So that was not a ritual. People I knew who went to other schools or were part of sororities had more rituals than at Wesleyan, which was anti-materialist.

G: So, a combination of gender dynamics, class, and the overall political atmosphere led to your lack of discussion of clothing.

M: No, we talked about it. But it was very different.

G: What would you talk about?

M: We didn't discuss brands. Brands were not as much of a thing. There wasn't a status thing as much for brands. You had a couple of nice things and things that you coveted. We did go to thrift stores. We wore a lot of hand-me-downs. I wore several long vintage coats. Vintage was very much a part of it. So that was a real look. And there was a Bohemian piece to school. It was a combination of Bohemian and Patagonia.

G: What would you wear to class most days? And what do you think was the typical Wesleyan student look?

M: Well, I was a dancer, so I always had tights and leotards no matter what—and long wrap skirts, jeans, and sweaters.

G: Okay. And everyone wore hiking boots? Why hiking boots?

M: Not the 20-pound hiking boots, like work boots. And Frye boots.

G: What? That's funny. Cause now everybody here wears Frye boots constantly.

M: Also, very, very few women wore bras, and I was upset that I had to wear a bra.

G: Like around your mom?

M: No, because I had boobs.

G: Oh. Yeah.

M: But most people I know didn't wear bras. There were a lot of braless people. People did not shave their armpits. This was feminism. Jeans, unshaven armpits. I didn't, but a lot of people wore very androgynous clothes. Everyone had long hair, which is similar to now.

G: Interesting. I think the hiking boots and long skirts combination is funny.

I tried again and again to get my mother to describe what it looked like to talk about clothing with her friends. But the more I pushed, the more it became clear that these conversations simply didn’t hold the same space in her social life as they do in mine. Still, I don’t fully believe it was because the political climate left no room for such talk. If anything, it felt like a deliberate avoidance amongst her friends—as if fashion, especially feminine fashion, wasn’t seen as intellectually or politically valid enough to warrant serious attention. This reminded me of a broader flaw within second-wave feminism, which often dismissed traditionally “feminine” pleasures—shopping and homemaking—as unworthy or counter-revolutionary. In contrast, my generation was raised on third-wave ideas that emphasized choice: that you can be a feminist and wear pink; that caring about clothes doesn’t diminish your credibility. Perhaps this shift is why my friends and I feel more comfortable embracing fashion as both aesthetic and political. For us, getting dressed is not shallow—it’s a ritual of self-expression, joy, and autonomy.

M: I wish I had a phone. It would be hilarious if you could find this picture of me.

G: I’m going to try to.

M: It’s on the Wesleyan catalog, and I have a backpack on. It was either 80, 81, or 82. I'm in front of North College. I'm looking over my shoulder. I had a backpack. We all carried backpacks. I had on the pendant skirt, the sweater, and my hiking boots.

G: Okay. I'm going to look for it. Were there any fashion, quote-unquote, rules or expectations that felt specific to Wesleyan?

M: It was almost anti-fashion. It was anti-brand. Conspicuous consumption was frowned upon. So I remember when we would suddenly know that our parents were there because everyone would look nice.

G: If there were students who did show extreme interest in fashion, would you frown upon it?

M: No, I probably would have been jealous. I didn’t have any money. I guess I'm saying we sort of created our own fashion. It was a very cultivated aesthetic. It just didn't involve brands. And consumption.

G: But with your friends, I imagine there would be communication about what it is to cultivate your own fashion within the borders that you had.

M: Yeah, it wasn't discussed as much. There used to be a store on Main Street called Bob's Surplus. And we would buy turtlenecks and pants. A lot of painter pants and work pants. That was a real look. So we would go and buy those things. And we also wore a lot of dangly jewelry.

G: Okay, you said Laura Ashley, Bob's Surplus, and thrift stores. What other places would you shop at? Was there a brand of thrift stores? Or was it more individual locations?

M: There were department stores. Otherwise, they were just individual stores. And a lot of third-world stuff. A lot of African, Mexican, and imported things. The whole Pier One equivalent. That was a big thing. And hand-knit sweaters from Italy. That was a big deal. They were cheap.

G: Was the thrift store just purely a money thing?

M: No, it was also because vintage was a look. You know, you're wearing old, used things. One of my coats was my mom’s from the fifties. And then another one I had gotten from someone in Granville, a Persian lamb, that was handed down to me. So it was not that terribly different. It was just less.

G: Do you think that thrifting was political at all?

M: No. It was only political in that… well, you must realize that the extreme wealth was hidden. There was not as much wealth disparity then as there is now. And so there were very few extremely wealthy kids. And if there were, it was very, you know, it was not showy at all.

This phenomenon of thrifting as a way to blend into a social class—or distance oneself from overt wealth—has not disappeared. In fact, it’s arguably become more complicated. Today, thrift culture is a form of aestheticization that can unintentionally erase the working-class realities it draws from. On college campuses across the country, students have faced criticism for engaging in what some describe as a performance of poverty: dressing down to appear more radical, more “authentic,” while still participating in elite systems. At Wesleyan, thrifted clothing may still be common, but its meanings are now layered—at once economic, environmental, and fashionable, but also potentially problematic when context is ignored.

G: And were there spaces on campus, like dining halls, dorms, parties, whatever, where you felt like fashion was especially on display? You said when parents would come…

M: Otherwise, different parties were themed. There was a lot of Grateful Dead stuff where we would dress up at WesFest, many outdoor concerts, and African drumming.

G: So it was more events and not really like classes or-

M: Any event that involved the administration, we cleaned up. But we didn't go to fraternity parties. We thought they were disgusting. So what I can't say is what the vibe was there. My understanding is that there were a lot of preppy clothes. So I'm speaking from an arts and humanities perspective.

G: Was clothing ever a political statement? Why do you think people were so interested in wearing the imported clothing?

M: The imported clothing was because many people were beginning to understand colonization and the influence of the West. There was a movement to support. That was a part of the sixties. And Wesleyan, in some ways, held over an aesthetic from the sixties that was probably longer than in other places. Also, Wesleyan went co-ed in 1970. So I was only 10 years into it being co-ed

G: That’s crazy. Wait, why do you think the culture of the sixties kind of lingered?

M: Wesleyan was known for cultivating individuals and people who thought independently. People who were totally into their own thing. A bit non-conformist. So that ethos was very much still anti-authority and very left. We had demonstrations all the time. I was on the news for speaking at an anti-apartheid rally. So that was also part of its identity.

G: Did fashion come into play in a gendered way?

M: It was the same thing with clothing from developing countries. Feminism and the whole conversation about rape culture and the male gaze, was all emerging and very prominent when I was at Wesleyan. It was a part of the dialogue. So we were doing the androgynous look, not wearing a bra, having dangly earrings, and long hair. Wearing mini skirts and hyper- sexualization was not cool.

G: Did men ever push limits on clothing?

M: Yes, but mostly men in the theater and the arts. Just the men in creative things. But I recently saw someone that I danced with at a reunion, who's gay, and he talked about how Wesleyan was, even though he was a dance major, pure hell.

G: Jeez.

M: There was a lot of sexuality questioning, but it was much more acceptable for women than men. There was a big lesbian piece that was very visible, but not the gay male culture.

G: How did getting dressed make you feel when you were that age?

M: Great. I have always loved clothes, getting dressed, and dressing up.

G: Was it more of a personal thing?

M: Yes.

G: And why did/do you love it?

M: For me, it was personal because it was visual and a part of self-presentation and identity. Identity politics and everything were just beginning at that point. I think there was, at least for women, not for men, a lot of freedom in that kind of self-expression.

G: Were there certain outfits you wore when you wanted to feel confident or rebellious?

M: I thought wearing tights and leotards under anything was very rebellious. So I had the identity that I was a dance major. Wearing a lot of makeup was not so much a thing unless there was an event that we were getting dressed up for, like Rocky Horror.

G: Was there one outfit you vividly remember wearing that you loved so much?

M: What I wore more than life itself is, oh, I know, there's a store in the village and it was called-

G: The village in New York?

M: Yes. And it was called Reminiscence. They had these very, very baggy overalls that tied both over the shoulders and at the waist. They were big onesies. I bought two pairs on two different trips to New York. I lived in those.

G: Wow, that's hilarious.

M: You should look it up. So I would wear like that over my tights and leotards.

There are many lessons to draw from this conversation. We live in a time when brand-consciousness and self-branding are nearly inescapable—so why does fashion still struggle to be seen as politically significant? Wesleyan in the early ’80s rejected fashion precisely because of what it was thought to represent: capitalism, materialism, the feminized, the frivolous. But in doing so, students also risked overlooking fashion’s potential to disrupt and express. My mom's generation cultivated aesthetics—they just did so through thrift, hand-me-downs, and resistance to excess. They expressed identity visually, but with an insistence on subtlety.

What I hope to illuminate through this project is that fashion has always mattered at Wesleyan—whether it was talked about or not. Its politics just looked different. It’s easy to dismiss clothing as unimportant, but self-presentation is often where politics live most intimately. My favorite part of the interview is when my mom talks about how a part of her fashion and identity was wearing tights and leotards under all her outfits. That is one way she could express herself.

I ripped my four-year-old orange Black Friday Repetto flats to shreds and decided a few months ago to get a new pair of Jeffrey Campbell slim, pale yellow ones. As a self-proclaimed 5’4 on a good day girl, the barely noticeable height these shoes have given me has changed the attitude with which I walk. Suddenly, when I go to the grocery store looking nothing but un-put-together in baggy denim and a pajama shirt, I get compliments on how “effortless” my outfit looks, rather than people looking at me with sorrowful eyes clearly feeling empathetic for the hard time my outfit says I’m going through. All of this to say is that shoes have become my new obsession. Not that they ever weren’t, but I had a brief moment with fall jackets and chunky necklaces.

The obsession was really invigorated this past winter, where I somehow found myself working NYFW for the second year in a row. Rather than being a brand intern, though, I was playing with the big dogs, so to speak. Call me a personality hire, a pro-networker, or simply a blonde with incredible luck, but I was swiftly on my way to being knee-deep in coffee runs, FedEx shipments, and fittings. I became boss Sofia Karvela’s project for the next few weeks.

I’ve sat down to write about NYFW as much as I’ve gone back and forth wondering if it’s excessive to buy my third pair of boots in the past month — about a million, trillion times. How can you describe the absolute fabulousness of being up close to creatives ruling the trends and scenes of NYC fashion? Let me try.

Flash forward to the last few days of January and I was back on the Metro-North, wearing baggy pleated trousers, my red pointy-toed boots from Spain, a faux-fur coat, and every piece of jewelry I have ever owned draped around my neck. I had packed my four outfits to carry me through the days of fittings that lay ahead of me with no formal dress instructions from my boss. That’s NYFW, baby! At around ten o’clock the night before Fashion Week prep started, I got a text from Sofia’s assistant telling me where to be and when. A casual penthouse filled with racks of clothes, accessories, and shoes that even my dreams couldn’t comprehend.

The first day was filled with nerves. I woke up abruptly at 7:30 AM and decided to play it safe with an all-black outfit. I probably looked like an usher, looking back at it. I wore my quintessential chunky jewelry and black tassel loafers, paired with my Eckhaus Latta scarf and DVF red hobo bag (two diamond finds on The RealReal). After my train ride to Midtown, I got off at 42nd Street and walked confidently into an anonymous penthouse, where I met Sofia’s assistant and the L’AGENCE creative team sitting around a marble table knee-deep in jewelry, shoes, and every style of clothing imaginable draped over an endless sea of garment racks. I was immediately given a tour of the office and shown the vast assortment of drinks, coffees, and snacks readily available to staff and stylists. Before Sofia arrived, I manically organized the five rows of shoes and table of jewelry — I felt like I was living the scene in The Devil Wears Prada right before Meryl Streep arrives and graces us with her presence for the first time, except everyone that morning was incredibly kind to me, and Sofia is nothing like the cruel EIC of Runway. So sue me, I created the ambiance to get into character as a lowly stylist assistant!

Thirty minutes and two shots of espresso later, I officially met the Sofia Karvela, who showed up with a baseball cap and a Celine bag, ready to start the fitting. After we ordered our sushi lunches, I watched as Sofia organized, remade, and restyled masterful looks on one model. As she called the fashion director for final approval, Sofia’s assistant and I scrambled to keep jewelry organized, help dress and undress the model, and steam the clothing. I took many trips to nearby Intimissimis to find the perfect nude underwear, tights, and bras for sheer looks, and tiptoed around the Diamond District in hopes of resizing jewelry. Even in the middle of the fast-paced life of Midtown, New York felt smaller than ever and began to morph into my playground. The Times Square train station became my hourly stomping ground, and going all the way down and up Manhattan turned into my internship rite of passage.

The next day was another fitting day in the L’AGENCE penthouse, where I organized and assisted with the look books, gloves, and all things steaming. I even got the chance to help dress the male models who were hired to be faux-train conductors for the upcoming presentation. Who knew Midtown could look so chic and muscular? I felt more comfortable adding color into my look of the day that morning, matching the energy of both the brand and Sofia herself. I wore a simple white tee and a straight-leg pair of vintage denim with brown loafers and a red cardigan draped diagonally across my body. The day raced by — as to be expected — and come time to say goodbye, I couldn’t help but feel sad about returning to Connecticut and my collegiate life, leaving behind a world that I had grown to adore. Although the days were tiring, I left feeling more alive than can be described. Rather than sitting behind a computer all day, I was running around the city with bags spilling off of my arms and talking to fashion’s most notable creatives. I poured my heart into steaming Eberjey PJs in a way I didn’t think possible. So I decided academia could wait and promised to show up for the shows and fittings the following week. Apologies, professors.

After one hefty speeding ticket and a brief 24 hours back in Connecticut, I was swiftly pulled back into my toxic relationship with NYC. I had goosebumps driving in seeing the cliché city skyline and was simultaneously sick to my stomach thinking about the 5:30 AM alarm I had set for the next day for the L’AGENCE show. My only instruction was to wear all black, which I happily paired with a geometric patterned trench and my trusty DVF bag, along with my red boots. I made my way to Grand Central in a blizzard and got escorted into the chaos with a backstage pass and a wristband.

The best part about fashion shows is the food. I don’t mean to downplay the fabulousness of the clothes, but when you’re hungry and are told to go wild standing next to the most elaborate assortment of coffees, juices, and freshly made breakfast spreads, quite literally nothing is better. After breakfast, I went into the dressing section and started to organize all accessories and make sure the looks printed and attached to each hanger were accurate and complete. Once done doing that, the sea of dressing interns flocked in (in all black) and found their assigned models and clothes to dress them in. I was swiftly sent out to pick up the four-shot, three stevia, almond milk, extra hot latte for Sofia’s arrival at 8:30.

Addicted to her.

A pang jolted through me as I saw the eager interns’ excitement and nerves bubble. A year ago, I was exactly in their shoes, patiently waiting for instruction and staying as anonymous and out-of-the-way as possible. Now, the head stylist was calling my name and asking me to hold back hair and tighten belts, ultimately inviting me to watch the presentation along with the rest of the L’AGENCE creative team in none other than Grand Central Station. Rather than being a lowly fashion intern, I was Lila, and I had somehow managed to work closely with Sofia Karvela during NYFW. All I could think was: I'm probably being pranked, right?

Eight hours after my initial arrival and two full rounds of hair and makeup, three distinct photoshoots, dressing, undressing, and redressing models, and a world-class seared tuna and steak lunch, the presentation started. I grabbed my 35mm film camera and headed to the Main Hall in Grand Central to watch the presentation, walking by the likes of Melissa Wood Health, Katie Holmes, Brooke Snader, Flaviana Matata, and the parents of TikTok’s favorite twins, Luca and Rue. I photographed my favorite looks, the standouts being the pearl-beaded dress and the tapestry coat, and took in the hard work of Sofia and her styling team — no detail was left unaccounted for, and it showed. The models winked at me as I passed them with my glass of white wine in one hand, camera in the other.

The two-hour presentation flew by, and in the blink of an eye I was undressing models and packing up jewelry to be shipped back to the penthouse. With five fresh blisters and finding myself yet again in Midtown amongst traffic and city slush, I still felt the happiest I had felt in a work setting in, well, forever. My subway ride back uptown on the 4/5/6 train felt just as alluring as the train rides I used to take in Madrid and London after a day of city exploring and museum-hopping. I was exhausted but addicted to the adrenaline racing through my body from the long day.

Rather than going back to CT, I stayed even longer and assisted Sofia with the Alice + Olivia show during the next few days. Just as fabulous, but maybe fewer snacks. I met incredible stylists, seamstresses, creative directors, and watched as stars and influencers alike looked at the intricacies of each look on display amorously. I brought my camera again and, rather than exclusively being asked to help with styling, I was also asked to take BTS photographs of the one and only Karvela. Once the presentation ended and the cleanup was done, it was time for me to morph back into a liberal arts senior, leaving behind another season of NYFW.

My life went back to normal, but my style and attitude changed forever. I started craving tailored blazers over Carhartt jackets, and skinny jeans tucked into boots, rather than the largest size pair of jeans that could sit on my waist. Of course, I didn’t lose my fundamental Lila style — I would just say that my appreciation for different modes of dressing drastically grew.

Aside from requests to help dress for SNL or even the Met, opportunities that would sacrifice me failing certain courses yet nonetheless broke my heart to turn down, time passed and rather than packing diamonds into bags I packed notebooks into backpacks.

So now what? Like any sane person, I took a month to recalibrate to New England and then decided that I wanted to work on a ranch in Montana. Call it a quarter-life crisis, but needless to say, my résumé filled with Fashion Week and corporate jobs at Calvin Klein and Milk Makeup did not suffice. I did, however, become obsessed with the idea of wearing Frye boots on a horse in Montana. I don’t think me and my massive suitcase full of Paloma Wool second hand skirts would have fit in, though. I’m not going to totally spoil the next chapter of my life for my dear readers, but I will say that my little stint in the glamorous world is far from over. Who knows? I might even be bicoastal…….

9th Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan is notorious for its vintage shopping. Curated and uncurated, expensive and not expensive. My favorite boutique is fittingly called 9th Street Vintage and I remember the first time I walked in. It was 2019 and I had just discovered the joys of archived clothing. Within the first six steps I took, I spotted a rack packed with vintage nightgowns. As my hand grazed the delicate fabric, I was scared that just one wrong move would tear it. I was about twenty miles deep into my fantasy, and then I saw the price tag. Three hundred. This was my first interaction with these beautiful things, so I assumed that every nightgown from the 30s was priced that high. Even though my adoration for vintage nightgowns grew by the day, I was reduced to desperately admiring them from afar.

Months turned into years of what felt like my unrequited love for these delicate little slips until I reached the summer after my senior year of high school. I was shopping at a vintage pop-up in Montauk, put on by a sunkissed girl my age (side note: I was ridden with jealousy that this girl wasn’t about to start her first year of college, but rather galavanting around the country visiting warehouses filled with vintage goodies to buy and sell). And then it struck me again. It was as if a scent had wafted into my nostrils and put me under a spell. The spell of a gorgeous 1930s slip dress tinted pale green, with tiny little sleeves that flapped in the breeze. Cut on the bias, it clung to my body at all the right spots. It was so light, so breathable, so effortless. I hadn’t even bought the dress yet and I was already defending it to my friends that came with me. My rationale was that I could wear it to an upcoming wedding. So, with my eyes pinched shut and my arm outstretched with my trembling, sad, little debit card, I dropped $375 on it. While I had earned this money earlier in the summer, I still had a pit in my stomach. Luckily, it was nothing my dopamine rush couldn’t subdue. I walked out with a wide grin smeared across my face, the slight ping of buyer's remorse trying to climb to the forefront of my brain. I called my mother and she nearly slapped me through the phone when I told her how much money I spent. She told me I was insane to buy a vintage slip dress for that much when I could find one just like it for $40 at a flea market. Being the teen that I was, I cast her off, told her she didn’t understand, and this was from the THIRTIES. But, like all good motherly advice, it set up camp in the back of my head.

A few months later the day of the wedding came. It nearly took me ten minutes to slip on my dress due to how fragile it was. But when the end seam fell to my ankles and the sleeves nestled on my shoulders, my worries melted away. It was the perfect amount of sheer–even though this was a wedding, the potential shock from my cousins was too delicious to pass up. And they delivered. While chatting with my cousin Molly over a cocktail after the ceremony, she said to me through a rigid smile, “What a funky dress! I could never wear that!” That was all I needed to hear. I danced all night and when I got home from the wedding, my dress had torn in three places. My fantasy was ruptured and I began to worry.

Halfway through freshman year of college, I wandered about the flea market outside my house. It had been there ever since I was a baby, and the TikTok crazies were on the brink of destroying it. I found this little tent with vintage sleepwear galore, all under $40. My mother was right, as she always is. Here were the incredible gowns that she had promised. The next thing I knew, I was at a flea market in LA and found another fairly priced seller. A newly enlightened shopper, I went on and on about how great her prices were, how you couldn’t find them in New York, and how she could be charging so much more and dummies would buy them (dummies like me).

I still have the satisfying memory of Molly’s face and my sweaty dancing in that dress from the wedding, but the dress just couldn’t handle the heat. I frequently go back and forth in my head if it was worth spending my hard-earned money just to tear the dress. I was able to repair it but maybe nightgowns from the 30s are just meant to be admired. Where does our generation’s need to shop curated vintage come from? The reasons I have heard include their one-of-a-kind-ness, their sustainability benefits, and so on. I suspect it is because it is trendy. Thirty-year-old women in Williamsburg take advantage of our TikTok-ridden brains and jack up the prices of clothing that should be half the price. And yet, I still can’t help but feel their magnetic pull. There is something special about wearing something from a different time in a whole new context. However, it is not fun when wearing it ruins it, but not wearing it feels like when people cover their sofas in plastic. Clothing is one of our last tangible collections, so perhaps it is okay to buy vintage clothing, like nightgowns, that can’t be worn out dancing. Articles of clothing can serve as relics and some people, like me I am discovering, can be satisfied with just that. Maybe just don’t spend $375.

I hate exercising almost as much as I hate kale and other “healthy” eats. I am a blackbelt in fork to mouth movements. In fact I’m pretty much a couch peach (I am not a potato in any form).

However, knees and arms and hips do give way to progressing age which in my case is “don’t ask don’t tell” but past the 80th parallel and my recent consultation with one of my numerous doctors resulted in a stern warning about the various “itis”and “osis” that flesh is heir to.

So, I scheduled a series with a physical therapist who saw immediately that my sullen performance would not work out.

To my amazement, he recommended boxing. Boxing at my age?! He explained that I did not need a corner or silk shorts or helmet or teeth guard. Just a pair of good sneakers would help.

I was embarrassed to tell him that such shoes had never made a home in my closet. I purchased a dark and unremarkable pair with zippers and Velcro, which are, along with elastic waists, the best thing to happen to seniors since Medicare.

He fitted me for gloves, which my enthusiastic but incredulous daughter purchased for me with the name “King Salomon” (my married and maiden name.

(yes in those times there were maidens instead of “scores”).

The day came and we started some punches and offensive and defensive moves. And I was actually having fun and moving arms and legs swiftly and laughing. The first round elicited some cramping of limbs that were formerly unemployed except for hooking a bra.

My balance improved and while the moves winded me very slightly I grew to love our bouts and now go twice a week.

Sanjay my therapist is a wonderful guide who is now talking about kickboxing in the future. You never know, but wrestling is definitely out!!!!