4/14/16

April 14, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Elephant in the room.

Clio often wondered about the awkwardness that existed between people. In the small art gallery where she was currently pinned against the wall by the elbows of strangers, she watched as patrons weaved in and out of the herd of New Yorkers clutching their wine and plates of cheese, everyone grimacing slightly at the moment of unwelcome contact; a brush of the hand there, a bump of the shoulders here. “You’d think we’re all diseased.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Clio had expressed her thought out loud without realizing. A man, six feet, dark brown hair and blue eyes, and feet that splayed out slightly, was waiting for an answer. She quickly thought of a lie.

“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“Oh. No worries.”

Clio assumed there was no response to be given, and so she resumed her practice of watching the individuals around her.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to disturb you—but have we met?”

She looked at him hard.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? You look very familiar.”

“I’m sorry, I honestly can’t recall.”

The man gave a soft, “hmm” and, “must have been someone else,” then went silent again.

They stood there, her shoulder to his upper forearm, bracing themselves against the crowd with arms folded. Every once in a while someone would step too close in their direction, and they would move back and forth, together and apart, to avoid a collision. Clio readjusted the scarf around her shoulders and absentmindedly felt for the pendant around her neck.

“That’s a great necklace.”

Clio looked up at him. He was looking at her a little too earnestly. She took a second to determine what weight of enthusiasm she should deal her reply.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“It really goes well with your whole vibe here. Very earthy.”

She chuckled a half-hearted, “Yeah, I guess.”

He looked away and she took the opportunity to examine him. Had she met him before? She scanned her memory and came up short. He turned his head quickly, his eyes catching hers just briefly before she whipped her head in the other direction and played with the ends of her hair, trying to play it cool.

“Have you ever been to Union Pool?”

“Yeah, for sure.” It was right up the street from her apartment. She very endearingly referred to it as The Clap Trap.

“Were you there about a month ago?”

“Yeah, actually I was.”

“Big group of girls? Bachelorette or something?”

“Yes . . . “

His lips thinned and pressed together. He expressed a sharp “Mmm hmm” with a nod of his head and uttered, “Excuse me,” parting the crowd and moving away from her. Clio’s eyes shifted back and forth. She could feel a heat rising in her stomach and traveling towards her cheeks, and she couldn’t quite understand why, but as she stood there, making curt glances around her, she hoped that no one had witnessed that scene. To her right, a couple backed into her. She grimaced.

J. Crew tank; Gifted vintage pants; Forever 21 scarf; H&M heels; handmade necklace.

3/31/16

March 31, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Where there's rain.

Eyes closed. She presses four fingertips into the arch of her eyebrow and feels her sternum expand. One. Two. Three-ee. One. Two. Three-ee. One. Two. Three-ee. One. Two. Three-ee. She counts as the air scrapes back and forth against the rims of her nostrils, holding the last count for an extra Three-ee-ee, before breathing in strongly and deeply to reset. The eyes open, one arm goes up, then the other. Fifth position; one of the only things she remembers from childhood ballet. She leans to the right, letting the left side of her ribs fan out and stretch, before countering. Tourists stare at her from across the street. Maybe they’re tourists. Actually, there’s no way of telling from this distance, other than the fact they’re staring. But never mind them. Extending a leg, her skirt falls away like a tent and she tilts out into the crosswalk, squinting against the sun. Rain looks promising. She visualizes where her umbrella is at home.

“WATCH IT, BITCH! FUCK.”

The momentum of a red Civic whips stray hairs into her face. She turns to watch the vehicle correct its course. “My mistake!” she yells apologetically in her head. Outwards she retreats gingerly, arms at her sides, eyeing the car driving farther away. The tourists are staring. One of them, a tall, lanky man with a long nose and brown stringy hair, bends down to whisper something into the ear of the woman standing next to him. She shakes her head. She is small and stocky, with a hearty face and short hair, styled in the way so many midwestern women do when they hit fifty: cut close around the sides and gradually expanding into abundant bounciness at the top. She is wearing cat-eyed glasses and his are are round and horn-rimmed, and as they vacillate their attention between themselves and her, tiny flashes of light shoot off from the lenses. The woman picks something off from the fleece vest he’s wearing, black against a pea-green flannel shirt. She wears a similar one, but hers is navy against a violet button-up, and they both wear jeans and round-toe hiking shoes. Yes, tourists.

They begin walking towards her, and as she lets her eyes dart to the side—double-checking this time for rogue, oncoming traffic—she moves forward. Were they judging her? They were judging her. How the fuck do they dare judge her? Who they hell were they anyway? They don’t know the rules here, they don’t know how it works: there’s no abundance of time, there’s no waiting for the crossing signal, there’s no anything. Do they know her life? No. She has things to do, she has places to be. She’s been awake since 6:45 and won’t be back asleep until 1. Do they know she’s nearly thirty and wants it to just be a little easier? Just a little bit. Do they know she just wants to sit? Just sit. For an hour, even half an hour. That’s all. Do they know she feels strangers rush past her day in and day out, and that she wonders how it is that everyone around her always seems to have their lives together? And why is it always so hard? Why is it?

Something small and wet splashes against her exposed shoulder. She directs her eyes to the sky. One. Two. Three-ee. One. Two. Three-ee-ee. Goddamnit. Tiny drops pelt harder and faster against her skin. She looks down and crowns her head, not noticing the tourists have crossed her path until an extended arm holding an umbrella interrupts her view.

“Here, dear.”

She looks up. The woman pokes the umbrella into her hand. She’s crowding under the one the man is holding.

“And my goodness, I can’t believe what that man said to you! How could anyone be so rude? Don’t let that ruin your day.” The woman smiles.

Her eyes look confused but grateful; she can feel what they express. Before she can say anything the couple walks away, and she is standing in the intersection at 5th and 23rd. The timer of the crosswalk ticks closer to single digits. She retreats with the intention of giving the umbrella back, but no, no—the pair has descended into the subway. Or somewhere. They’ve disappeared somewhere, somehow. Turning back she runs lightly to the other side of the street, slows back down, opens the umbrella as she walks down the sidewalk, the natural rhythm of rain drumming against the nylon. She has things to do. She has places to be.

Inhabit tank; Gifted vintage skirt; Vintage belt; Zara flower necklace and flats; Handmade poof necklace.

3/23/16

March 23, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Spaghetti Western

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Marta let her eyes dart over for a second to catch his in the mirror. Judgement. She dabbed the point of her eyeliner to a bare spot on the black wing she’d just drawn.

“An outfit.”

“We’re going out.”

“I know.”

She riffled through her makeup bag in search of mascara. Peripheral vision alerted her to the pose Tim had struck for the last fifteen seconds: knees slightly bent, chest forward, hands up as though they were expecting to receive something at any moment, eyes confused that they still hadn’t, head cocked. She counted two strokes of the wand for each eye, and ran an index finger lightly back and forth over the lashes to separate them.

“I’d really like it if you changed into something else.”

Placing the mascara back into the bag and zipping it slowly, Marta finally turned to face him. She shrugged.

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m taking you out to dinner. I want this to be nice.”

“I look nice.”

“You know what I mean.”

She looked at him, blinking every couple of seconds, but saying nothing.

“It’s a really good restaurant. Really. You know: classy.”

“And what’s not classy about this? I’m wearing a blazer.”

“Marta! For real? Your stomach.”

Marta looked down.

“What about it? I think it actually looks pretty good.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. I’ve been working out a lot.”

“You’re wearing goddamn sandals, too.”

“They’re leather.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Metallic leather.”

“Marta! I am not kidding, we have to leave in, like, ten minutes! We have a reservation.”

“Do you actually think I can pick out an entirely new outfit in ten minutes?”

“YES I DO.”

Marta returned to blinking, letting her breathing get longer as Tim’s got shorter. At the end of a few minutes she let the right side of her lip curl up into a sneer.

“And what are you going to do if I don’t change?”

“It’s. A. Nice. Place. It’s expensive.”

“I’ll pay for myself then.”

Tim stood there for a moment, looking at her unamused. Sighing, he threw a “Whatever” hand up as he walked into the bedroom to get his jacket.

Marta dropped her makeup bag into her purse, putting her own jacket on as she reached for her vibrating phone: “Tim, Uber’s here,” and she opened the door.

H&M blazer and belt; Zara crop top and sandals; Uniqlo pants; Forever 21 earrings.

3/18/16

March 18, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Spring means pom poms.

What I loved most about the arrival of spring as a child were the arts and crafts that came with it. There was egg dying, crepe paper flower making, paper basket weaving, and my favorite of all, the creation of pom pom bunnies.

However, I was a dexterity-challenged kid. Many times I’d try to be careful about the dyes I was mixing, but then I’d sneeze and knock too many colors into the bowl of water, only to be like, “Aw man,” because all my eggs ended up being dyed a poop brown color. Or I’d be tearing out crepe paper flower petals—paying attention long enough to manage getting one side of the petals somewhat rounded—until someone would say, “LOOK A BEE,” and then I’d look and get distracted, the other side of my petals inevitably becoming squares, and I’d think to myself, “Aw man,” when I saw that my flower resembled a very sad polygon. Or I’d try my best to cut straight lines in my construction paper, but I’d do that thing where half-way the hand starts to taper very gradually—but one think she's still cutting straight—so by the time I reached the end I’d sigh, “Aw man,” because now I had paper strips that were weird and my basket was going to be all lopsided.

That’s why I loved the pom pom bunnies. All I had to do was glue two pieces together, and then let my teacher handle the hot glue gun part of attaching the feet, ears, googly eyes, tail, and nose. It was fool proof.

Except for that one time it was my turn for gluing, and as my teacher was putting everything together, another student exclaimed, “LOOK A BEE." As my teacher looked she haphazardly put my bunny together, so that when it was returned to me I whimpered, “Aw man,” because she had glued everything backwards. “It’s the exorcist bunny!” she said. And I was like, “What?” and she was like, “Nevermind.”

Zara top, heels, and coat; Vintage pants; Handmade pom pom necklace.

3/17/16

March 17, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Atlas Shrugged. And then said, "The fuck, Ayn Rand? Making me look bad and shit."

I have never read Ayn Rand's magnum opus, mostly because I have no interest in it. I've gone over the plot summary on Wikipedia, and the crazy ideas it suggests via Salon articles found here and here.

I mean, there's A LOT going on with this book. Lady was a special sort.

My favorite takeaways of what the novel teaches, or at least from what I skimmed through in the aforementioned articles, are that poor people are gross, nature is gross, independent women standing up for themselves are gross, doing good things for people is gross, socialism is gross, government is gross, basically everything is gross except fur and diamonds and gold and smog and cigarettes and selfishness, and going against the love of any of that makes you a vile cretin.

Which means that many of us, by definition, are Ayn Rand's devils incarnate. AND I LIKE IT.

Zara scarf and mules; H&M skirt and bangles; Forever 21 ring; Vintage collar; Urban Outfitters belt.

3/16/16

March 16, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Something in the way she moves.

I am not a patient person. There appears to be a restlessness in me that can never be quelled. When I lived in Houston, I’d drive an extra twenty-five minutes—taking a detour that took me wildly out of my path—just so that I could avoid traffic. In New York, I zigzag all over the sidewalk without hesitation, out of a need to keep moving.

I’d be king of the sharks if that were my lot in life. I could outrun any alligator.

While I do get sidewalk rage—every once in a while I find myself behind a slow herd of people and can feel my fingers inadvertently curling up into my palms, the nails digging in sharply—I admittedly get an interesting pleasure out of participating in this game of urban dodge ball. It’s like performing an odd kind of street dance. I like to test how gracefully and swiftly I can make it from one destination to another, how much fluidity I can sustain. Of course, my ballet is usually interrupted quite abruptly, but there is still immense satisfaction to be gained from making it down just one street in absolute perpetual motion. It makes the travel, even with the constant frustration of human blockades, worthwhile.

That’s a lie. I’m usually seethe-breathing by the time I reach my terminus, and fantasizing about Red-Sea-Parting the bejeezus out of people.

H&M top; Zara faux leather pants and flats; Vintage beads.

3/11/16

March 11, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Mad World.

Alice in Wonderland is probably one of the most fucked up children’s movies I’ve ever seen. Actually, Bambi is pretty bad, too. And Dumbo. It was also recently brought to my attention that Fantasia is hella racist. Basically if I had been a locked-away homeschool kid who learned the facts of life from early Disney movies, I would have been educated on the idea that you should kill or incarcerate baby mamas, refer to every ethnicity and race by its most offensive terms and then be like, “HAHA IT’S ENDEARING, LET ME SHOW YOU WHY IN CARTOON FORM,” and then go trip on some acid in a field.

Anyway. I appreciate Alice in Wonderland as an adult, however. And truth be told, I liked it as a child, in a weird, horrifying way. Alice in Wonderland makes me think of an alternative dimension of eternal spring. I love the cabin fever that spring infects. It’s the only type of illness I ever hope to contract. Spring resurrects all my crazy ideas buried in the dead of winter when it is cold and dark, and the outside world is not welcoming.

I’m driven into frenzy by the outlandish, whether it’s farfetched schemes of exotic travel, or plans for out-of-this-world ambitious projects. None of it ever really meets fruition, but the excitement of possibility suffices in catapulting me into action to do . . . something . . . anything. My most inspired works and activities have more often than not been the happy “accidents” or “failures” of another thing I was trying to achieve. When the world is blue and bright, and vision is clearer, everything appears to be within range. And though this illusion paints me with kookiness in the eyes of those who perceive the situation otherwise, I like to consider something a very wide-mouthed and creepy cat said once:

“We’re all mad here.”

HAHA just kidding it’s only me.

Vintage sweater; Zara top; Mango pants and necklace; H&M hairclip; Vintage Manolo Blahnik heels.

3/10/16

March 10, 2016 by Daniela Medina

World's No. 1 Best Worst Detective Agency.

Outside of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow might be one of the more difficult novels I've attempted to read; I was going along until a math equation popped up and I had to make a swift exit. Which is why when Inherent Vice was made into a movie, I developed an insatiable curiosity to see it, as the book had been rumored to be one of Pynchon's "most approachable."

After viewing the film, my conclusions are such: First, if Doc can be a detective, I can be a detective, because Doc is stupid and lazy, and I'm stupid and lazy, and those two are usually a terrific combination for shit going bananas, but it seemed to work out for him in the end. Second, I would make both the best and worst detective. Over the years my close friends have endearingly transformed me into a verb (transitive), in which "to Dani" means "to expand upon a thought or idea until it boils over into a life of its own, mutating into a multi-legged creature that attacks itself and inevitably brings around its own demise." I would solve all of the cases, and none of the cases. Seeing as how I have an unparalleled talent to pull conspiracies out of my ass like nobody's business, I would inevitably hit upon the answer but would overlook it, favoring the ultimate morphed conclusion that the culprit all along had in fact been me, who had performed the crime in my sleep while dreaming a very perturbed dream about my middle school bully, being so roused with anger that I felt compelled to avenge myself while in a transfixed state.

So that's why I design book covers instead.

Zara top, pants, and hair accessories; Retropolis Vintage suede trench; J. Crew belt; Nike sneakers; handmade necklace by moi.

3/9/16

March 09, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Shady dealings.

One of the things I love about New York is the collection of weird stories one begins to acquire after having lived here. This August will mark eight years for me, and in that time a few things have happened:

1. Being approached by a man with a curious accent that sounded like a cross between Transylvanian and Donald Duck, who offered me money in exchange for granting him access to my feet, which he wanted to lick.

2. Being approached by another man with a black eye and a bloody, bandaged nose at 3am while I was waiting for the crossing signal, who said he needed to tell me a secret, to which I was like, "Hey cool story, hold that thought I need to go see something on the other side of the street real quick."

3. Being approached by yet another bloodied man, who then fell on top of me.

4. Getting hit by a car and inciting a response from the driver of, "You ok? Yeah, you're good. Kbai."

5. Stopping a knife fight on the subway. Just kidding that didn't happen. I probably would have gotten off at the next stop because I'm a coward and hate blood.

6. Sitting next to a man who was dressed as The Colonel on the subway, who kept repeatedly rising, walking slowly around the car and eyeing everyone, then returning to his seat, before finally getting off at Union Square and yelling upon his departure, "WELL I DO DECLARE" (that did happen).

7. Being approached by someone at a bar, who in one breath told me I was an angel who had transformed the place into heaven, and then that I was a trashy hoe. Still not quite sure what happened there.

8. Having amazing opportunities (good).

9. Meeting amazing people (great).

10. Creating amazing memories (most excellent).

Zara jacket and boots; J. Crew tank; Anthropologie tights; BDG shorts; Banana Republic necklace.

3/4/16

March 04, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Banal Fab.

The most bizarre styles come out of fashion. Remember shabby chic? That vogue where people decided to look homeless intentionally? Or what about normcore, that trend where designers promoted Gap’s entire line of clothing from the past twenty years?

I’d love to be the innovator of a new mode. I think I could pull it off with the right name. One idea I have is to start something called Banal Fab, in which I wear the nicest things I own to run errands like grocery shopping, or buying a new toilet plunger, or purchasing chapstick. It’ll add a little touch of glamour to the everyday, it’ll make everything an event. Yes? Yes?

Oh my god, I need to get out more.

Zara dress, top, headband, and gloves; Sam Edelman brogues; The Limited brooch.

3/3/16

March 03, 2016 by Daniela Medina

White lines blowin' through my mind.

A recent Washington Post article described the growing trend for discreetness in fashion, and how affluent shoppers are shying away from designs that promote a house's logo too prominently.

Which is a choice I personally agree with. I've never been a fan of Louis Vuitton's "LV", Gucci and Chanel's inverted letters, or Prada's boldfaced name. That's not to say I won't drop a humblebrag about the Manolos or Miu Mius I'm wearing, but it'll more than likely be because I scored them for a baffling price through some ridiculous means.

A well done logo is an absolute thing of beauty. Not that the logos for fashion houses aren't masterful, but in my opinion there is no need for an entire look to revolve around them. They represent fashion houses, institutions that create unprecedented fashion designs: the clothes and accessories speak for themselves. To brand them with a logo makes it feel like it were done for the purpose of one thing, and one thing alone: to inform the world that whatever is being donned is an exclusive product that cost a lot of money. But what about when the logo is the style? If I'm wearing Adidas or Nike, it's because of those three stripes or oversized check mark. That is the entire aesthetic. And something I appreciate. I see those icons and think not only of sportswear, but of overcoming unbelievable odds, of achieving feats a lot of us only dream about. While three stripes and a check mark seem commonplace and easy, they work to enhance the product they're selling. Besides, if there's one thing I've learned in my career as a designer, it's that if it looks like it was easy to come up with, it sure as hell wasn't

Adidas sweater; Zara tank and oxfords; Hei Hei shorts; Banana Republic, Noir, and Club Monaco bracelets; Claire's wood necklace; Mood Fabrics pom poms.

3/2/16

March 02, 2016 by Daniela Medina

The weirdness of it all.

I’ve been known to don bizarre things. In my supposed maturity I’ve grown more reserved with my wardrobe choices, but there was a time when I would wear just about anything. I won’t even use the word sartorial to describe my past style; it was just weird. Once in grade school, I pulled a stretchy headband down from my head, over my shoulders, and around my waist because the shirt I was wearing wasn’t “cinched enough.” There are a few thoughts that come to mind when accessing this memory. The first is one in which I attempt to visualize just how thin I actually was, and the second is, why a headband? Why not a belt, or some ribbon, or rope even—a piece of twine? Some floss? Why a headband?

Of course, even now I have my moments. As detailed in the outfit descriptions, that necklace is horsehair reserved for use in a violin bow. But I saw it and thought to myself, “That should go around my neck.” Because why not? Why the fuck not.

Zara coat, shoes, earrings, and headband; J. Crew pants and cami; Horsehair necklace.

2/26/16

February 26, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Style, Fashion

For show.

I'm the world's laziest person, which might hint at what my apartment looks like: heaps of clothes + hating to clean + somehow always being tired = what the fuck happened here. Thorough cleanings of my space are usually reserved for special occasions, which means they are just for show. I am not naturally tidy or organized.

When speaking about things that are just for show, the practicality of fashion is something that often comes to mind. Take, for example, the shoes paired with this outfit. What purpose do their heights serve? I can't think of anything other than it makes them look cool. Their architecture, like the cleaning of my apartment, is just for show. However, the problem with saying that anything is just for show—shoes, an apartment, whatever—suggests a negative implication of superficiality, in that were it not for the approval of others their purpose would cease to exist. And yet, there are days when I wear clothes like this and do not leave the house. There are days when no one is expected at my place, and I spend hours restoring its glory. It is misleading to say that any action an individual partakes in is merely "for show," because sometimes "for show" is directed at the most important audience: you, yourself, and you again.

Mango jacket; Primark triangle necklace; Nasty Gal copper necklace; J. Crew linen tee; Boohoo pants; Converse hi-tops.

2/25/16

February 25, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Style

'Cause we are living in a digital world, and I am a digital girl.

I created my Facebook account my sophomore year of college, in 2005. Facebook was fairly new at the time, years away from the bells and whistles it has now. It was really more like a glorified AOL profile that I would remember to check, maybe, once a week.

Let me repeat that: Once a week.

Guys, there is no longer a digital action that I partake in weekly—I barely escape hourly. This is both by choice and requirement. There are the usual addictions like Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr . . . to be honest I don’t really understand Snapchat, but the app is installed on my phone anyway . . . that I should know better than to indulge, but do regardless. But then there are the inescapable ones, like emails, calendar and event notifications, meeting reminders, virtual work training, Skype calls, FaceTime dates, and on and on and on. There are days when I literally go straight from my work computer to my home computer, with the only pause in between serving for the commute. I live in a digital world, a virtual reality. We all do.

And we’re more and more immersed in technology everyday. By now we’ve all seen that video of the robot whose creator has a death wish, and it begs the question, just how much more drastically are our lives going to change? When will the Internet become Skynet? When will our existence shift into an Orwellian universe? When are the Predators coming? Where are the Digimon? When will I get my hoverboard that is actually a damn hoverboard?

And most importantly, when will Siri stop being such a snarky little biotch? Damn, can’t ask that girl anything.

Zara coat and jumpsuit; Tucum seed necklace; J. Crew flower necklace; Converse leather sneakers.

2/24/26

February 24, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Style

Little House on the Prairie.

“Prairie” being New York, and “Little House” being my approximately 450 sq. ft. apartment.

The New York real estate game reminds me of what it must have been like to adhere to the rules of the wild wild west: no one giving a flying fuck! Man, it is a free-for-all that will truly test where you find yourself in the battle of survival of the fittest. I'm one of the lucky New Yorkers who inherited my current apartment from a friend, and I have since decided that I will only leave once the landlord drags my stinking, rotting carcass out of the building. Mostly because I just have too much shit in there, and the idea of moving it all hurts my head and my heart.

But, also because this apartment is the first I’ve truly considered a home that is mine and mine alone. No, I don’t own it (ha!), but it's the first piece of property that reflects my personality entirely; that apartment is me. I have lived in it, decorated it, styled it, and organized it myself. I’ve been heartbroken in it, fallen back in love in it, defeated in it, and then successful once more. It is messy, and then clean, and then messy again. It has been the beneficiary of my time and effort, which, albeit may not always be a lot, has still been my own contribution, motivated by none other than myself. And that’s a big deal, especially here in New York where it’s more common than not to have one or several roommates. When I moved here and realized what the rental situation was, I never dreamed I’d be able to manage living on my own some day.

Yet that’s the magnificent and frustrating wonder of this unpredictable city: out of nowhere, some day came.

AllSaints denim button-up; Zara faux leather skirt; Converse leather sneakers; Ribbon I found somewhere.

2/19/16

February 19, 2016 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Style

Stupid phrases.

Gender roles are a curious thing. The concept of adhering to such rigid divides is something that bothers me perpetually, because who, really, determines what is masculine and what is feminine? I've never considered myself to be completely female of mind, though I have the genitalia and organs that would make me so. But I do view myself as a woman physically, and I am attracted to men.

But aren't people so much more complicated than saying quite decidedly, "You have a vagina, you like the peen, vis a vis you are a full-bodied woman"? I am a full-bodied woman, and yet, a part of me is very male. What, then, of someone telling me to act like a proper lady? I've never considered myself anything but, female-male divided mind and all. And what of someone of a more effeminate persuasion—who has never seen himself as anything other than a man—being told to man up? Is he not that already?

And don't even get me started on non-human identities; I'm pretty sure that overall, I'm actually a Slow Loris. If you don't know what that is, you need to stop reading this and get to googling.

Zara coat and pants; Uniqlo tee and tie; Topshop brogues

2/18/16

February 18, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Maybe this year.

You know those good intentions you set for yourself, but never follow through with? Wearing skirts is one for me. That is, if you’d go so far as to label wearing a skirt as a “good intention,” which apparently I do.

In grade school the uniforms we were provided gave options for three different bottoms: pants, skirts, or shorts. Pants sucked, so from grades 3-5 I wore shorts, if I could help it. Texas doesn’t have a tendency to fluctuate much in its seasons, so this usually meant most of the year. However, in middle school all of that changed when I felt an intense pressure to start wearing skirts. All of my friends were, and since I was 11 with no real opinion of my own, I felt I should as well. This was a point of internal contention, because even at such a young age I had already developed an intense hatred for shaving. On top of that, skirts limited my movements at recess: I couldn’t do cartwheels, I couldn’t jump off of things, I couldn’t run very fast; I couldn’t really do much of anything.

Of course, one gets older and realizes this is not a real issue, and even if it were it’s one that’s easily solved. But I do catch myself now and again wishing I were a bit more . . . feminine. For me, prolonged indulgence in femininity has often been like drinking what might be a fourth or fifth cup of coffee. It beckons, it calls, it looks so good—so you give into it. You take a sip and the seduction is as amazing and incredible as you hoped it would be. And then, finally, there’s that one molecule too many of caffeine that sets off a chemical reaction wringing your nerves so badly they begin to coil into themselves, and you want to die.

And thus my problem with wearing skirts.

Zara top, skirt and heels; Anthropologie headband

2/17/16

February 17, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Oh my, starry eyed surprise.

Do you remember that song? Do you remember Paul Oakenfold? Do you remember your youth? Do you remember when you didn’t have to wear a bra?

I hate bras. Mine is the first thing I take off when I get home, even before pants. I like it better when stuff can jiggle freely (run wild, little nips, the world is your oyster!). It’s much more comfortable. Wearing a bra, personally, is equivalent to someone hugging me for too long. It’s nice at first, maybe even ultra snug in a way that feels pleasant, but after a while the only panicked thought churning through my teensy head is, “I CAN’T BREATHE, WHAT IS THIS, GET IT OFF GET IT OFF.” So, if you're of the same opinion, try wearing a blazer without a bra. There are three options you have in doing this. One, wear it with double-sided tape, thus securing shit stays in place. Two, not wear it with double-sided tape, and give zero fucks about who sees what. Or three—my favorite—walk around all day with your hands holding your blazer still, and act as if that's something all regular people do.

Also, my pants have stars on them.

Mango blazer, H&M pants, Zara necklace, Giuseppe Zanotti heels

2/12/16

February 12, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Maestra

I went to a grade school that required a uniform, and I hated it. Childhood is where my penchant for accessories developed, because they were the only way I could differentiate myself in a sea of children wearing matching outfits. When I graduated to high school, and then college, I was finally able to dispose of that garish clothing once and for all. I was free, I was free, I was free! I could express myself as I wanted through my clothing: color, texture, cut, the sky was the limit!

Fast forward to the present day, and I've self-imposed a uniform for the work week again: a plain colored shirt, jeans or slacks, and sneakers. Maybe flats or oxfords, boots even, if I want to be fancy. As contrarian as it sounds, my day job as a designer makes me less inclined to exert that energy anywhere else but, at least Monday through Friday. One less thing to focus on or worry about means a more concerted effort dedicated to my work.

Until I get on Instagram, and then it's all downhill from there.

Uniqlo tee and socks

Zara crop top, culottes, loafers, and necklace

2/11/16

February 11, 2016 by Daniela Medina

Draw me like one of your French girls.

Do you remember Titanic? Of course you do. We all saw Kate Winslet’s boobs, who could forget that? Recall that memorable scene: “I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.”

There are some things that make me feel inexplicably French. Like, sitting outside a café while wearing a beret, eating a baguette with brie and chasing it with a flute of sparkling Rosé, as I people-watch with impeccable Resting Bitch Face, muttering to myself words that end with an "eh" sound. Things like that. And then there are the je ne sais quoi things that give me pause with a, "hmm, so French." Beautifully structured flats, or a cute little blazer, or well tailored pants, or off-the-shoulder tops often make me feel that way. They take me away to that beautiful city of lights where I dream of living some day, even if only briefly. There maybe, just maybe, I'll be approached by a handsome struggling artist who will offer me a bazillion dollar diamond necklace—which somehow he has in his possession and yet still manages to struggle—in exchange for posing nude for him for a portrait.

Ha! Just kidding I'd do it for free.

J. Crew blazer and flats

Zara top and jeans

Vintage earrings