As Andrew and I prepare for our trip to NYC next week, I find myself facing the alarming realization that if I descend upon NYC wearing pretty much anything I currently have in my closet, I will be marked instantly as a Tourist from Sacramento. Let’s get this straight right off: I am NOT a tourist from Sacramento. I’m a former New Yorker who just happens to be temporarily living in California.
My current wardrobe suggests otherwise. For example, I’m currently wearing a cotton skirt from Target that looked ratty when I bought it (lots of rough-cut, unhemmed layers; strategic pilliness) and that now, two years later, actually IS ratty. I’m wearing it with a tank top that does not fit. Perhaps I could select a tank top I bought at Gabe’s last time I was there, or perhaps not: it’s printed with psychedelic rabbits (oh, the wonders of the clearance rack). I really like a new Anthropologie dress I bought at Gabe’s, but I think it’s a little Earth-Mothery for New York. The new clothes I have are few and far between, and they are—sigh—decidedly different from the nice, sophisticated clothes I used to wear on a daily basis.
So last night I went shopping and bought a few things. I put on a cute black belted dress, slung my purse over my shoulder—and the girl staring back from the mirror was the old me. I could imagine her striding down a crowded street, staring disinterestedly at something in the subway, raising her hand for a taxi. I could imagine her buying overpriced heirloom tomatoes from the Union Square Greenmarket, shopping at the Strand, ascending the stairs into the Met on a Friday evening. She was a girl who actually wears heels on a daily basis.
I bought the dress. And another one. And a skirt and a top. And shoes. Everything in black. I just might even pass for a New Yorker.