Flesh and Bone for the plebs. Plebs being me.

My boyfriend is a choreographer and dancer. I cannot dance. I try to, but, you know: it just wasn’t meant to be.

But I still enjoy the hell out of it, ballet in particular. I love watching ballerina’s twirl and soar, achieving spectacular feats with just their bodies. Do they not dazzle, do they not inspire? And the costumes! Those tutus, those headpieces, those shoes! How can one not feel compelled to go home and attempt the same thing? That is, until one pirouettes a little too aggressively and rams her hip into a drawer, causing it to shake and upset the balance of a vase, which then falls over onto the floor and shatters into many tiny pieces, at which point one decides she should probably just go to bed.

Zara top and ballerina shoes.

J. Crew metallic sweats.

Banana Republic straw purse.