Outfit Post: From Russia with love

A little haiku I whipped up describing yesterday morning:

24 degrees

Jet Blue take me to AZ

It's cold as balls here

Today will be the first warm day we've had here in North Dallas in a long, long, long while. Or two weeks. I've spent the majority of the time huddled under down throw blankets, nursing mugs of tea while shivering next to my space heater. I've been cranky, irritable, and melancholy, tearfully reminiscing over memories of warm days...days when I sat outdoors on restaurant patios drinking coffee, people watching, reading my Kindle, and blissfully bathing in sunlight.

However, while getting dressed this morning in yet another outfit based around warm layers, it occurred to me that there's one great thing about winter - dressing for it. I love cold weather clothes. Give me a pair of tall leather boots and a heavy wool coat and I'm a happy girl. I love being cocooned in layers. I love heavy tights. I love chunky knit Scandinavian wool. I love wearing mittens, and soft scarves, and thick sheepskin boots. And I adore cuddling into flannel pajama bottoms at night.

There's something undeniably romantic about winter clothes. Sometimes, when I'm getting dressed on a frigid cold morning like today's, I pretend I'm a Russian princess, or Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago, about to accompany a dark and swarthy vodka-drinking czar on a horse-drawn sleigh ride into the night. I would wear folkloric wool dresses and wide peasant belts and fur muffs, with an enchanted, faraway look on my face. We'd softly glide to our Byzantine-influenced Kiev flat, where he'd light us a massive fire and read me poetry by Alexandr Pushkin as I nibbled on blintzes with creme fraiche and caviar. It would all be very Eastern European opulence, with crushed velvet and ballet and cigarettes and sable coats. And horses. Horses we will ride bareback. Because that's how they do it in Russia. Or so I've seen on The History Channel.

Temperatures are predicted to reach the seventies here next week, and I'm prepared for a moment of sadness when I trade in my sweaters for lightweight blouses. But just for a moment. Because my spring clothes miss me too.


What's your favorite season to dress for? 

Old Navy cardigan; thrifted Old navy button-down; thrifted Gap wide-leg jeans; Target belt; thrifted Doc Marten oxfords

 

Bargain shopping: Where do you draw the line?

I am one of those people who loves a bargain. Time spent digging through the racks of a discount or consignment store is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make. Unearthing a bargain causes the sort of high I imagine career drug users experience (not that I would know. The strongest drug I've ever used was nicotine.) I love informing someone that my Joe's Jeans were purchased during a particularly fruitful dig at the Salvation Army. I adore the look of respect, gleamed from a stylish friend, when I educate her on the origin and price ($10!) of my embroidered Anthropologie sweater (see below.)  I am almost haughty when examining someone's designer purchase, knowing that I would have paid much, much less for it than the wearer. Indeed, if discount shopping were an Olympic sport, I am absolutely certain I would earn a gold medal.

While I am proud of my ability to score a bargain, this knowledge often gets me in trouble. I have a really really hard time passing something up when I know it's a great deal. This might explain why my closet is crammed beyond capacity. Clothes are spilling out of drawers, shoved into storage containers, lurking underneath my bed. My skirts share hangers.  Belts are sexually tangled together in a hulking lump. 

I have a teensy bit of a problem.

Today I had a few hours to fill, so I tripped off to a newly discovered consignment store near my house. I was lazily thumbing through the racks when I uncovered a new with tags J. Crew Collection 3/4 sleeve gold waxed linen belted jacket (whew.) As an avid fan of J. Crew, I knew exactly what this jacket was worth: $275.oo. Price at the consignment store: $45. Score, right? Well, the jacket was a size large. I am not a size large. Moreover, I have absolutely no need for a 3/4 sleeve gold waxed linen jacket. I can't even imagine how I'd wear it, or where I'd wear it to. I imagine women who wear $275 gold waxed linen jackets pair them with diamonds and Louboutin heels and drink dirty martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives and live in homes decorated by snooty men of questionable sexuality. But it was such a good deal. I'd be crazy to pass it up.

I spent a good twenty minutes examining the jacket. I unbelted it, tried it on, took it off, put it on again, preened at myself in front of the mirror. I examined the lining, the collar, the strength of the stitching holding the buttons. I could feel the salespeople looking at me, questioning my sanity. 

In the end, I decided that despite the bargain price, the jacket was not a financially reasonable purchase. Because I really had no need for such an opulent piece that wasn't even my size. My most expensive heels are from Marshall's. I hate blue cheese. And so my forty-five dollars would have been wasted. (If you're in the Dallas area and want to know the name of the store I was in, shoot me an email.) Will I regret passing the jacket up? Maybe. But I'm not sweating it.

This outfit? All thrifted. Damn proud of it. And much, much more me.

Are you a devoted bargain-hunter? If so, where do you set your limits?

Thrifted Blues Heroes leather jacket; thrifted Sleeping on Snow flutter-sleeve cardigan; thrifted Michael Stars henley; thrifted Seven For All Mankind jeans; thrifted Doc Martens; Urban Outfitters flower studs.