Me having a favourite linen dress is kind of like a mother of one saying that her son Winston is her favourite child. It’s not like you had a choice, ma’am.
I’ve been wanting a linen dress for ages. Something that said “Look! Look how fabulous I am! I summer in the Riviera and have a miniature poodle named Nolita!”. For me, a linen dress is the epitome of summer. That, and perpetually living with a thin film of boob sweat betwixt your shirt and bra; the former, however, is far more glamorous.
So I stalked. I looked at white vs. colour, short sleeves vs. sleeveless, short vs. long. I’ve lately been into midi/maxi options because that way I don’t have to shave my legs (woah woah woah she’s a laaaaaady) and because I’m 17 feet tall. If I tried to wear a mini dress, it would look like I had forgotten my pants.
Also, I live for the element of mystique. I want people who meet me to wonder whether or not I actually have kneecaps.
Somewhere along my dress quest, I ended up where I usually do: My mother’s closet (or as it’s known by the locals, The Room Of Requirement). I unearthed this gem, smuggled it with me back to New York along with an industrial-sized carton of feta, and have since only worn it twice for fear of somehow damaging it. Some people worry about killing their plants or misplacing their newborns. I worry about getting soy sauce on my clothes. We all have our battles.
The dress is pretty conservative, and since I’m not wearing it to go on safari for the foreseeable future, I dressed it up with a funky wrap belt (also my mother’s) and some strappy sandals (I did actually pay for these). While I also like the idea of styling it completely buttoned up and topped off with a neckerchief, I elected to dramatically unbutton it.
After clutching my pearls and briefly fainting on a velvet divan at the sight of my collarbone, I got over myself and was able to proceed with the shoot.