No Fear New Year's

I've already started the New Year with a haircut I find disgraceful so, effectively, it can't get any worse, right? A little addled from the (prescribed) Morphine I had taken less than an hour before, I flopped into my hair stylist's swivel chair and nodded in agreement to the ends of her statements - a desperate attempt on my part to appear like a functioning member of society. It was all a bit of a painless fog, but I caught "new boyfriend", "California", and "Look at how long your hair has gotten", the last of which woke me from a small coma.

The affection I feel towards my hair is similar to, and perhaps outmatches, the love a parent feels for their child. I dress it, pristinely, making sure it presents its best self to the world; I spoil it with its favorite food, L'Oreal Studio Line Curl Shaping Creme; and I commemorate its lengthy achievements (pun thoroughly intended) in the traditional parental methods of picture taking and relentless bragging. A growth chart engraved into my wall is forthcoming. My hair stylist mentioning my hair was long was like, well, my hair stylist mentioning my hair was long. I can't think of anything better.

She ran her fingers through my burgeoning tresses and gasped at the progress I had made in the 3 months since I was last subjected to her shears. I smiled, smugly. She gasped, disenchantingly. "We're going to have to do some more shaping. Some parts are much longer than others". I nervously swallowed in the exact cartoonish way an animated character swallows when they are faced with similarly earth-shattering news.

My hair follicle's had gained much ground in their ongoing war with my stubborn DNA and this "shaping", as she so ineffectually called it, would erase months of proud battle. It was all "for the greater good", I was told.

I hung my head in defeat as a signal for her to begin.

I hated the resulting haircut. Her so-called improvements left my hair feeling feeble in ways I had never imagined. It was limp and dry to the touch. If it is at all possible to suck the life force out of hair - an anatomical by-product that is, by nature, dead - than that's precisely what she did. Though it was supposed to be a routine trim, I still maintain something else happened while she was up there. But I'm not here to squabble about that. My point is, she said it was the best thing to do and I took her word for it. She is a hair stylist. Hair is only the summation of her profession so it was probably in my best interest to heed her advice. I don't mean to discredit her expertise, but at the time it just didn't feel right. I could have zealously waved my hands in refusal, gotten out of her chair, or simply said "no". But I didn't. I just took her word for it.

Back home, as I stroked my hair with the same inconsolable grief usually reserved for deceased loved ones, I realized that I, like many others, are all too guilty of taking the same unchallenging approach to life. There have been times, many times, when people have preached to me about the definite outcome or absolute necessity of a particular direction in life under the guise of "telling me what's right in this world". In my naïveté, I mistook their arrogance for wisdom, and suppressed any desire or inclination to ask why or find out for myself. I'm not taking any of that into 2013 with me. In the wide-eyed, tenacious, blindness to failure that is the spirit of New Year's Resolutions, I have declared that I will no longer take people's word and will, instead, experience things for myself because that's where the real life lessons are hidden - in the taking of wrong directions.

Now, this isn't to say I'm going to immediately run out and get myself a heroin-addiction. I'm just going to try to ultimately be less afraid to make mistakes. We all say mistakes don't scare us, and sure, we may not have night terrors that involve a giant blood-thirsty faux-pas chasing us, but does the absence of an anthropomorphized predator really mean that we're not afraid?

I sway to the edgier side of fashion when deciding what to wear. I don't necessarily try to take risks with my outfit choices, I just naturally gravitate towards the more questionable pieces and even then, I push the envelope further in order to stay on my toes. I presumed that since I take risks in this one aspect of my life, I can essentially be dubbed a risk-taker throughout all of my life. Not so. I'll don a pair of hot pants in inappropriate weather without hesitation, but when it comes to life choices I'm pretty conservative, not so much as to reduce my quality of life, obliterate my spontaneity, or vote Republican, but definitely enough to where I have noticed and found myself displeased.

My problem is, I want to do everything right. Nothing is more reflective of that than my academic career. School report cards became a quantitative way of measuring how in control I was. B+'s weren't celebrated in my household. A's didn't warrant so much as a pat on the back (if that), they were just expected. I've taken that insatiable thirst for straight A's with me into the real world. In math, there is only one right answer. You might get points for showing your work, but there is only one right answer. In my 24 years I have stumbled upon the notion that life is not a math test. In life there are many right answers and your "work" doesn't have to look the same as the guy sitting next to you.

We've all heard it, "The choices you make today can effect the person you become tomorrow". For some, it was a subtle reminder to avoid carelessness. For me, it became a cautionary tale of the impending lifelong misery sure to come from irrational actions. The words, sirens as they were, evolved into a requiem that lamented my possible persecution. Any action that wasn't plotted or planned immediately became a danger to the unwavering happiness I hoped to, one day, obtain. More than anything I'm afraid of my life not turning out how I imagined. There's a lot of stuff in my past - and unquestionably my present - that didn't go down as expected and the only consolation I have for this marathon of maladies is my quintessential future self. There is no margin of error. I very much need to become that person, so much so, I feel like I am biologically unable to "just see what happens". That right there is pre-2013 thinking. I've been so afraid of getting my outfit dirty (figuratively and literally) that I forgot that those little stains are what make life such an unparalleled experience, and thusly, fun.

Up until now, I've wanted a lot of things, in terms of experiences, to agree to the terms and conditions of my picture perfect fairy-tale life story - nice and neat, almost plastic wrapped. But, in a glorious stark contrast to years before, I want this year to be the messiest, disorganized, tangled, bruise of a year I've ever had. Metaphors aside, I'm going to be more bold. Instead of being safe and hiding behind what I was told, I'm going to take risks and relish in the happy accidents that come. I'll still get to where I'm going, but I will have so much more fun along the way.

In regards to this blog: Some have expressed concern that people may not want to take their style advice from the sick. If fashion is supposed to be aspirational, no one is clamoring for the latest in gastroenterology (see: Sheer Madness). Unfortunately for them, that's not what I'm doing. What you wear on a first date is of no concern to me. What I am doing is, recounting the sometimes horrendous but often illuminating circumstances of my time in recovery, wielding nothing more than a curated artillery of clothing, shoes, and accessories. Here, I examine my own style choices, all the while composing my love letter to fashion.

Carving out a piece of real estate in the blogosphere is about finding your niche - what you and and only you can provide to citizens of the World Wide Web. Blessing or curse, I have this unique experience. It's taken much from me but it has also changed the way I see fashion and, in turn, fashion has changed the way I see the world. That is also what this blog is about.

I want to write about fashion from a vantage point that's never been used. Most people don't know this because most people haven't gone through the physical and emotional degradation it takes to learn this, but fashion can heal better than most medicines - whether you want to be your best self or someone else entirely. It's amazing what the occasional yard of fabric and cleverly placed seam can do.

The recipe for the modern style and/or fashion blog is quite simple. Ingredients include: 1 obscure location for the background (e.g. a concrete area with lots of graffiti if you want to appear edgy and urban, a deserted field of some sort if you want to appear pensive) and 1 awkward pose (preferably with the subject looking in every direction except the camera's). Mix together (take photo) and repeat ad nauseam. The outfit doesn't even matter as long as you've got the pose and the location right. That's not the kind of blog I wanted this to be, lost in a pile of look-alikes. My goal is not to convince you I invented dressing.

In their own way all these things were the impetus for this blog which has, overtime, strayed from that original pioneering intent. It is my humble belief that one should not start a blog if one does not have anything to say. I have a few choice words, but I haven't expressed them as deeply or as frequently as I would have liked. The only way this blog is going to work, in my eyes, is if I'm honest about my experiences and how I'm using fashion to either enhance or combat them. So for 2013, I don't want to rest on intentionally vague adjectives like "fine" or "well" because most days I don't feel either of those things. I want to get even more real. I believe fashion has heart and the only way to show that heart is to open up. It may not create the prettiest angle, but Wear in Tear isn't about how fashion makes you look, its about how fashion makes you feel.

Sheer Madness

Photo by Andrew Vowles for Hero Magazine

At the beginning of the year I became the proud owner of my very own feeding tube. 3 times a day, laboratory manufactured nutrients flow directly into my stomach via a plastic tube semi-permanently affixed to my stomach. No chewing or utensils required, leaving my hands free to shop online or compose thought provoking Instagram captions. Its purpose is to help me gain weight. A rousing "You've hit rock bottom" from my team of doctors pushed me to have the tube implanted. I had stubbornly tried to gain weight the natural way, but it never stuck so I finally seceded and agreed to do it their way. Much like a set of nutrition training wheels, the tube paired with a gradual increase of oral intake is supposed to help me reach a healthy weight and more importantly, maintain that weight. Once I meet my caloric requirements, it'll be removed. Only a whopping 62 pounds to go!

It sounds like a dream - getting your ideal body by sitting on your ass - and it would be if I weren't ravenously craving all things sheer. In the same way that people crave food, I crave trends and since the tube placement I've developed a real hankering for see-through clothing. So far I've bought a Christopher Shannon sheer number with varying degrees of transparency, an ASOS top that creates a similar effect with horizontal stripes, and my oh-my-god-what-was-my-life-before-you all time favorite new shirt: A Comme des Garçons Homme Plus broad striped shirt with mesh sleeves! Not to mention the various sheer creations I already own. Of course, the feeding tube has kept me from indulging in my sheer fetish, so all of my purchases have gone unworn, hanging somberly in my closet or remain in their original packaging (like the CDG whose wrapping was too pretty to just throw away). I suppose I could throw them on occasionally to get some mileage, but my tube kind of hangs in plain sight. While this season has many trends to look forward to, the Umbilical Cord look is not one of them

Half of me is chasing my latest fix. The other half is trying to accomplish something bigger. Since my original diagnosis, I've felt overlooked. I feel people looking over me, around me, and even through me, but never at me; It's almost as if I've become sheer myself, to draw a painfully shameless similarity to the topic at hand. With recovery on the horizon and the promise of a new body, I'm elated at the opportunity to show off that which I used to hide, because it used to be that ribs were all I had to offer. This see-through clothing binge is my (not so) subtle way of forcing people to recognize me as a human being and not a medical anomaly. It shows the world that I'm a person too and though I may face different challenges, I am still flesh and bone.

When I walk into a room I am usually met with curiosity or remorse. If a man were to express attraction, I wouldn't even know how to properly respond. Adolescence is when you usually work those sorts of things out - what it means to want someone and be wanted in return. My teenage years were spent watching Oprah with the day shift nurse so it's safe to assume I never really got a hang of flirting. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping the see-through clothes will help me accrue some points in the dating game. Bare flesh beneath transparent fabric, sheer clothing possesses a certain sensuality that is not lost on me. In fact, I'm counting on this sensuality to help me get what I want. My goal is to feel comfortable in my skin (while simultaneously showing it off), but if I land a man in the process, that's a particular gift horse I'd be happy not to look in the mouth. Bringing boys to the yard has been so low on my list for so long. I need to remember that it's an actual thing that people do and not just something I read online.

For my integrity's sake, it should be noted that this sheer lust isn't just a sad attempt to get laid. Underneath it all, I'm just anxious to look in the mirror and see a healthy, thriving person. This thing has taken so much from me, some of which I can never get back, but sheer clothing can help to put this retched disease behind me. I know it sounds absurd, but in some weird, fashion-obsessive way, wearing sheer clothing is my Declaration of independence. The exposed parts of my body will act as undeniable proof that I fought this battle and came out on top.

It's weird. My full recovery has been just out of arms reach for what seems like forever. I want it so bad and yet when I allow myself to imagine it, the idea seems unreal; it's like hearing a fairytale as an adult. In childhood, the mysticism and wonder practically poured out of you, but as an adult all you can seem to muster is a cynical "Yeah, right". Yet, despite these reservations, I do hope this happens for me because it's long overdue. I'm well aware of the fact that I'm making sheer seem much more important than it really is, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar", but that's what I love about fashion - it's power to transcend the limitations of language and communicate on a level unreached by any other medium. Like it or not, realize it or not, what you wear says a lot about who you are, and in my case, what I'm trying to overcome. It may be see-through fabric for some, but to me it's a badge of honor.

But It Was Just A Paper Bag

 "Fashion is nothing but a contest to see who can look the most like a retarded clown"

Advice given to me during high school chemistry when I was caught trying to hide a V magazine inside my textbook and as anyone who's ever bought a V before knows, that's quite the Herculean task. My teacher marched right over, looked down at the magazine, and bestowed his "sage" wisdom upon the entire class. Immediately, I felt compelled to put on my suit of armor and defend the honor of my friend, mistress, and lover. I argued that fashion was more than handbags and high heels. It was identity, emotion. It is art in its most compelling form and fashion designers are the ones holding the paint brushes. As Stanley Tucci once said to a poly blend clad Anne Hathaway, "...what they created was greater than art because you live your life in it." But my chemistry teacher couldn't see it. Refused, even. He was a man of science and not a true man of the cloth (get it?).

I've had many arguments like that, preaching to nonbelievers about the impact of la mode. I pretty much give designers carte blanche over their creations, absolving them from any form of practicality. If you want to wear a jacket made of hair à la Maison Martin Margiela, fine. Want to ward off potential suitors with Victor & Rolf's statement making "No" collection? Great. Even now I think it's perfectly acceptable to go from catwalk to sidewalk in Alexander McQueen's Armadillo Heel. In some cases the item is just bizarre enough to be undeniably chic, such was the case with Elsa Schiaparelli's shoe hat. It became a declaration of good taste. Stylish women everywhere were wearing her shoe-inspired creation on their head.

This season the fashion powers that be have given us the Jil Sander Vasari bag, which is resembles an average paper bag. In Schiaparell's case, the shoe hat was more than a shoe, but the Vasari is quite literally a brown paper bag. I may be the sworn defender of fashion, but even I can't justify this one. With a price tag of $290, the Vasari is one of the most coveted items of the season. I'm afraid its popularity gives people license to carry around whatever they can find in their kitchen drawers. People are already using garbage bags as luggage. Does this mean we're collectively headed towards the storage aisle for our accessory needs? What's next? Ziploc bag clutches? To their credit, there is a more luxe version made of leather. That one costs around $800, as if adding cowhide justifies the price.

You won't look like a "retarded clown" carrying this bag, but you will end up looking like an elementary school kid that got lost on their way to the cafeteria. In today's economically unstable times, it's important to consider the alternatives. One could, say, go into their local Walmart and pick up a whole pack of paper bags. 25 bags for a fraction of the price of 1. Then you could take them home and write JIL SANDER on the front with a black Sharpie. It's the least time consuming DIY project of the century. I can't help but wonder what this says about the designer (who I hope wasn't Raf Simons, but rather some intern in the accessories department) and the fashion industry as a whole. Are they/it lazy or ingenious? Inspiration does come from the strangest places, but how inspired do you have to be to slap a label on a paper bag? Grocery stores have been doing it for years. The genius part of it all is that the bag is practically sold out everywhere; meaning people are actually buying it. And not just buying it, but feigning after it. I refuse to believe my chemistry teacher was right in his staunch belief that fashion lacks depth, that it's just a bunch of label-hungry fools willing to buy anything their told. Maybe the bag is some social statement about the caste system and we're not getting it. Or maybe it really is just a paper bag and the joke's on us. This is one purchase I'll be steering clear of, mostly because I prefer bags that don't fall apart in the rain.

As a tribute to the topic at hand, I give you one of my favorite Fiona Apple songs, "Paper Bag". Cool points if you can find the post title in the lyrics:

Sad Saks

Is it me or do the Milan shows seem especially somber this year? I clicked through show after show only to find small remnants of the talent that was once there. Maybe the economy is finally effecting fashion. For years, everyone's been battling diminishing economies. Perhaps this is the trickle down effect. Critics bemoaned designers, claiming shoppers were putting their money into more responsible things like mortgages and braces for their teenage daughters, but I didn't see it. The shops looked pretty full to me. But this spring's Milan shows have me wishing for an eternal winter.

Although I applaud them for some unconventional casting choices, their proportion play that brought new heights to big sleeves, and you know I love a short (way) above the knee, I miss the decadence and glamor of Dolce & Gabbana. What happened to the gilded gold accents? What happened to the army of muscled men in tank tops clinging to their taut chests stomping down the runway to whisk me away to a better life? The collection looked like a glimpse into someone's life as a field hand back in the old country and that's exactly what I was getting from the collection - old. Not nostalgic, not reminiscent. Just plain old. I did like some of the busier prints - a sign they haven't completely abandoned their aesthetic, but plain striped polos are not Dolce & Gabbana. I can get that at my local Save-a-Lot. Overall, the collection was a little beige. No, brown. If the Dolce & Gabbana collection were a color it would be brown, and honestly I don't know if that's better or worse. The collection has left me with a sense of ambivalence that I'm just not used to feeling towards the brand. Thankfully, they did partake in the ceremonial man parade. Sadly, this time it was more like a funeral procession.

Jil Sander was alright. It was Jil Sander's Jil Sander and not the edgy Raf Simons' Jil Sander that I'm used to. Reminiscent, of her simple capsule collections with Uniqlo, I think it's going to take some time for Sander to really find her footing; which, I suppose is understandable considering her absence. I don't remember when she left, nor do I recall any details of her departure, but I do know it was just that - a departure. She had to sever ties with the brand she created for a reason. Whether it needed new life, I don't know, but it certainly got it with Raf Simons, who if anything put the label on my radar. I did like her sleeveless blazer suits and the "Ladies Who Lunch" Mondrian-esque cardigans. The cobalt blue looks were cute and a nice color trend that I'm starting to see this season. I like the wide cut jackets except they seem a little Raf Simons 101 as well as the printed tees with what looked liked numbers. You could see Simons' handwriting in nearly every look. As for the other jackets, I don't know how useful they'll be in the warmer months. I get the sense that she showed those jackets just to throw something down the runway, as if to say "Look Ma, a full collection!". The collection was safe, which I'm sure is a brand driver the company doesn't want to be associated with. If only we could freeze the fashion clock at Fall 2012, Simons' final menswear collection for the brand, and just kind of alter it as the seasons saw fit- a sleeve here, a pant leg there. Then we wouldn't have to have this conversation. I feel bad, In her designer photo she's positively beaming unshakably proud of her clothes. And I want to tell her "Why are you smiling? You did a mediocre job at best". The clothes weren't ugly, they just weren't cool. Jil Sander used to be for the cool kids, not their grandpa's.

Maybe Miuccia is on vacation. Maybe she left the country, or even the planet, and couldn't be reached because I refuse to believe that the woman that brought us jewel studded golf shoes is responsible for this "famine of beauty". I believe Prada can certainly do better than mildly color blocked polos and bottoms, and tank tops with contrasting trim. I'm assuming the geriatric models were a statement. Mr. Rodgers was apparently her muse. Nursing home socials, her intended setting. There were some jackets that wouldn't make my skin crawl entirely and I suppose I could find somewhere to wear a few of the trousers, but nothing to write home about. There weren't even accessories to drool over. The collection felt restrained, and undesirably so. Like, a masked gunman made her do it. At least, that's what I'm choosing to believe.

Giving me flashbacks of the dark days when Ed Hardy was king, Alexis Mabille, a brand and designer I have come to admire, was a disappointment. The collection was frat boy casual. Usually his clothing has a designed casualness to it (see Jesus of Nazareth chic Spring 2011 collection). I understand this was the designer's first showing at Pitti Uomo, but there wasn't much that couldn't be found on the sale rack at Sears. This is a world stage for menswear, let's step it up. I had hoped this was a joke collection, with the real collection to debut in Paris where real fashion had sought refuge. It seems like Mabille was reaching out to a new customer - you know, the guys that worship Christian Louboutin sneakers and yet don't even know how to pronounce his name. I remember a time when Alexis Mabille was thought provoking, controversial, something I actually wanted to wear. And now, he's become the costume director for Jersey Shore. Ladies and gentlemen, let the fist pumping begin.

The images shown are all I could resurrect from the wreckage full collections. I feel it necessary to clarify that I really was rooting for these guys, and not just waiting to dance on the graves of their creativity. Past seasons have revealed stellar, awe-inspiring collections - the Prada espadrille oxford mash-up and the stunning yet simplistic Jil Sander Spring 2011 show are just two examples of this group's flawless report card - and that's what I was expecting, what I assumed I would be getting. But as spiritual law dictates, "When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me". My only hope is that next year will yield collections so mind-blowingly exquisite that it will be impossible to look at them directly without eye protection.

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Pitti Uomo wasn't a complete travesty. At the end of the day, the Milanese are known for fashion and at least a few designers stayed true to that legacy. Two of such saving graces are featured below:

It seems I'm the only one who hasn't mistaken Burberry's dyed aluminum foil fiasco for the second coming of Jesus. In certain pieces - short sleeve shirts, cardigans, and trench coats - it looked like wrapping paper or someone's backyard reenactment of the Matrix trilogy. But in others, where it was more subtle, it was also more successful. The metallic bomber jackets are a perfect example of this. I'm also dangerously intrigued by the metallic pants, although, I'm not entirely sure I won't look like a tube of lipstick in them. Finally, it seems only natural that in a collection of bright and sparkly, I've become partial to the darker, earth-toned pieces. I'm convinced military green is the new black and have fallen hard for the unconventional silhouette of Burberry's take on military machoism. Overall, Burberry showed some smart outerwear - from high collared and olive drab, to reflective and possibly heat conductive, to perfectly printed - each one, in its own way, was beautiful. But in the fashion world, saying a Burberry coat was beautiful is like saying the sky is blue.

Thom Browne's clothes don't generally fit most men's definition of "wearable", but for me they do. I can always expect a bit of fairytale drama in his designs for Moncler Gamme Bleu - sweeping capes, enshrouding hoods, playful shorts á la Hansel and Gretel - there's always thought behind the look, which, I suppose, is the genesis of his intelligent collections. I've written about Thom Browne before, so in efforts to not sound like a sad groupie with his name tattoed across my chest, all I will say is that I love where he's taking menswear. I love where he's taking fashion. Fashion is fun again. White has been a staple for the brand and it's amazing to see what Thom Browne can do with what many don't even consider a color. It makes me want to trade my wardrobe in for his carte blanche, snow white creations, which I would gladly do, if my food ended up in my stomach instead of on it.

LCM: Topman SS13

Thanks to London's gift to mankind - London Collections: Men - Christmas came a bit earlier this year. The spring collections are generally my only hope for Topman, seeing as how their entire design team must call in sick when it becomes time to work on the fall collections. In the weeks prior to the spring showing, I scoured the Internet in search of something, anything, any morsel that would reveal what would be sauntering down the runway on June 15. The fruits of my quest were a picture inspired by the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat and a few other snapshots of California boys skateboarding. Great, I thought, tent-like tees and baggy ass jeans. What a waste.

California skateboarding and the like were definitely referenced, not in the dirty skatepark way I imagined, but rather in an intelligent way that was both an interpretation of the West Coast and youth culture in general. There were fluorescents, bold prints, mesh, athletic influences, and a close cousin of the Dexter Wong Boiler Suit from Spring 2010 that I've been coveting since January 2009. Topman not only offered me choice garments, but redemption as well. I mean, in what world are perforated biker jackets, blazers, and shorts not a must? On second thought, don't tell me because I'd hate to know such a heinous world exists. There were also cute shoes that can only be described as Pilgrim-Gladiator, and although I highly doubt the pilgrims and gladiators ever shared a meal, I am grateful for their sartorial offspring. My fingers are permanently crossed in hopes that those shoes get made in at least one color. Shown in black, white, and orange, the ladder would be a more than welcome addition to my growing tribe of footwear.

I pray to the fashion gods that be that my favorite pieces make it to production. A lot of people don't realize that most of what is shown on the runway never gets made (at least not exactly as shown). A lot of things get redesigned or even thrown out in the months between the show and the clothing racks, thanks to buyers and a need for sellable products. Buyers will say "I can't sell this in a neon orange, but I could if you made it black" and so begins many a collection's slow death. One of the great things about a designer or brand opening their own store is that they can display their clothing as they see fit. All those crazy cooky garments have a place to call home. It's one of, if not the main reason I prefer flagships to department stores.

But even Topshop/Topman, with their international fleet of stores, can't make whatever they please. In order to be profitable, people have to buy their product and in order for people to buy their product they have to like what they see. Unfortunately the majority of the world isn't too daring when it comes to dressing. So a lot pieces don't get made because it would mean a financial loss to the company, not to mention an even bigger loss to my wardrobe. Topman is also near and dear because I can actually buy the pieces I see on the runway. A lot of the time I watch shows and I think "I love that but where am I gonna buy that? Sometimes they pop up on an obscure website other times I have to make-do with an "inspired by" look. At least with Topman I know that (some version of) what's hanging off the models will be hanging in my closet next season.

How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse In Style

My news outlets are bursting with stories about recent zombie-like attacks. And when I say "news outlets" I mean text messages and my Facebook news feed; hardly CNN or The New York Times, but nevertheless trusted sources. When someone dies, I log onto Facebook. I get my news from the people. The offenders' behavior is said to be a result of drug use. "Bath salts" in one and PCP in another. Personally, I've never known drugs to cause someone to eat a face off. They've maybe caused a few to believe they lost their face, but never eat one off. This is some zombie stuff the government is trying to cover up. Somewhere some drug trial participant went rogue. All signs point to Florida. In any case, preparation is key. But what do we honestly have to look forward to? 28 Days Later, Resident Evil, and The Walking Dead all predict tattered clothing and soleless shoes. No, I'm not going out like that. If the zombie apocalypse comes, I have to do it in style.

Shoes

I've always been an opponent of athletic footwear. I never run, so I don't see the point in wearing running shoes. I've always chosen look over feel. In a perfect apocalypse, I could walk for miles in the new pair of bejeweled oxfords I bought, but these things rarely work out the way you want them to. Thankfully, fashion sneakers have become a recent trend. Isabel Marant, Marc Jacobs, Raf Simons, Prada - lots of designers have looked to the sneaker for inspiration. If I absolutely must wear sneakers, all I ask is that you remove them should I get bitten. Regardless of how sneakers have infiltrated the realm of high fashion, I cannot die in them. I at least want my reanimated corpse to look polished. I do recommend you carry a pair of stylish shoes, just in case you run into some high-profile survivors. If you just can't picture life without pumps, even with a zombie gnawing at your ankle, you could always use the heel to impale your attacker. Spiked heels are great for this occasion, the perfect way to show those zombies you're not to be messed with. And when you want to maintain your Alice (Resident Evil) impression and rest your feet, there's always spiked flats. (Steve Madden Silver Studded Flat, Jeffrey Campbell Lita Spike 2, Jeffrey Campbell, Tawny, Blink Aeroo Metal Sneaker, Raf Simons Hi-Top Sneakers, Adidas Originals by Jeremy Scott Wings and Stars Hi-Top Sneakers)

Jackets

The good news is many utility jackets are already stylish. I myself have been looking for the perfect military jacket for ages, spending many afternoons digging through bins at The Army Navy surplus. During the apocalypse, it's imperative that one find a jacket made of durable fabric, something protective and posh. A denim, leather, or whatever those military jackets are made of. Some are more expensive than others, but think of it as an investment. This is your life we're talking about. (Zara Combined Sections Parka, H&M Leather Jacket, Adidas Slvr Fencing Jacket, Topman x Oliver Spencer Denim Biker, Maison Martin Margiela Military Jacket)

Bags

Rule# 1: huge handbags are back in. Those cute little clutches that are so hot right now aren't going to carry a damn thing. You can't fight a zombie with a credit card and lip gloss. Maybe a clutch would work for evening slayings, but for the everyday you're gonna need something that says "I mean business" or "Don't eat me. Eat the girl wearing a fanny pack" at the very least.  And depending on its size and weight it could also be used to bludgeon a few "walkers". (Baggu Endlessly Useful Emerald Shopper Bag, Topshop Box Chain Leather Bag, Chanel Overnight Bag, Alexander Wang Golf Bag, Pieces Olya Bag)

Pants
I love micro shorts. In fact, that's probably an understatement. I worship at the altar of micro shorts. I've been known to rile up a few construction workers in a pair (they thought I was a girl). So it pains me to say this, but they just won't do in this kind of world. You need pants. Even as I write this, the voices of every adult I've ever known repeating the same thing echoes in my head. You don't want to get bit by something and then die because you couldn't get your hands on some antibiotics. Not after all the heads you've severed. The best bet would be a pair of skinny jeans. Cut close to the body to maximize speed. No more talk about the Wide Leg Trouser coming back. The WLT can sit its ass down. That's a pant for safer times. (Julius Patch Skinny Jean, Mango Rolling Jean, Moto Jaguar Metallic Leigh Jeans, Ksubi Van Winkle Skinny Jean)

Shirts

You won't have time to button your favorite blouse when your neighbor is trying chew off your arm. The Zombie Apocalypse is going to be all about zippers, Velcro, and throwing things on. Buttons will become a luxury you can't afford. The basic tee is a practical choice. What does every rugged hero wear in every action movie? A basic tee. But not just any basic tee, opt for a slimmer, fitted cut. 1. Zombies can easily grab onto loose fabric and 2. No one ever said you had to be a sloppy looking zombie slayer.  (Carven Crossover T-Shirt, Hanes Basic Tee, Comme des Garçons Shirt Fine Rib Tee, 3.1 Phillip Lim Draped T-Shirt, Givenchy Cutout Tank, T by Alexander Wang Sheer Short Sleeve Jersey Tee)

Accessories 

Wear all the spikiest rings, bracelets, and necklaces you can find. Simple. (Topshop Pearl Spike Ring, ASOS Spike Clamp Bangle, Pamela Love Spiked Resin Cuff, ASOS Rocco Articulated Statement Necklace)

Gloves

One useful piece that is often overlooked. You don't want to get brain under those nails. (Ann Demeulemeester Lace-Up Glove, Hayatochiri Yellow Spiked Glove, ASOS Lace Gloves, Forzieri Women's Red Perforated Italian Leather Gloves, Romwe Half Hand Black Gloves)

Weaponry

Eventually you will need real weapons, other than the ones you wear. The Walking Dead has taught us to go for more silent killers - crossbows, knives - generally found in dark or muted colors, but in today's DIY world you could always buy some rhinestones and bedazzle those suckers before the shit really hits the fan. 

Now, some of these pieces are ridiculously expensive. Others are not. I tried to create a mix of high and low. When making purchasing decisions, consider this: If the banks fall, which they probably will, money will be worthless. There will be no such thing as credit card debt, student loans, or America's massive debt to China. I'm certainly not suggesting you go out and blow all your money on cute clothes. Save your cash for underneath your mattress. The items I've chosen are meant to inspire. Except for the Chanel bag, I'm going after that hardcore. Trust me, once the electricity fails, rendering security alarms obsolete, Chanel will be my first stop. Take the Julius jeans, for instance: If you're willing to pay $885 for a pair of shredded jeans, you deserve to get eaten by a zombie. But Topman produced a similar pair for their Topman Design Fall 2010 collection. Track those down. Consider it practice for when you're hunting squirrels for dinner.

Green

Jil Sander Python Print Tee,
Proenza Schouler Tropical Green PS1 Large,
Burberry Raffia Coat,
Jil Sander Trousers

My iron is low. I say that casually because my iron is always low. No matter what I do, I can never seem to get it up and it's just become this thing, a character trait, like blue eyes. Your eyes are blue and my iron is low. It's not life threatening, so don't go planning any bake sales in my honor. One really good way to increase iron intake, my doctors say, is to eat plenty of "green leafy vegetables" - turnip greens, spinach, cabbage. Apparently it's like really important to get those in and stuff. And I have made the sincerest efforts, but to no effect. I've done everything short of swallowing a metal rod.

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome, I no longer wish to carry out this charade. I figure it's high time I put this top dollar college education to use and develop a solution for my woes.

My body plays by its own rules, with a set of instructions not even I can decipher. If my body isn't absorbing the necessary nutrients through the food I eat then maybe, just maybe, it will through the colors I wear. I propose I wear green; sort of like a solar panel absorption effect. Think about it, I could wear green clothing and my body could get all the nutrients it needs that way. I wouldn't even have to learn to cook kale.

Truthfully, I've been craving green things like crazy (pictured above). Probably like I should be craving those green leafy vegetables. Green has just become my color for the season I guess. Most would go for a turquoise or orange, something that really screams "Get ready to melt", but I figure a nice green speaks to the season well - blooming flowers, returning leaves, freshly cut grass. It's a surprisingly versatile color. Depending on the shade it could either be a great neutral or an amusing pop color. I haven't been discriminating. Of course, I'm not trying to look like the Jolly Green Giant (which, take note, can easily be accomplished if one goes overboard), although I'm so tempted to put the pictured Jil Sander pieces together. I'm just attempting to take my wardrobe in a new direction; looking good and getting the iron I need.