As New York remains suspended somewhere between winter and spring, my wardrobe grows ever more confused, and as a result, increasingly sloppy. Though rays of resplendent sunshine may peek through my blinds in the morning, a most unfriendly chill greets me the moment I step out of doors, causing goosebumps to spring to attention. Alternatively, a dark, forbidding sky might yield a surprisingly warm and gentle rain. My biggest complaint about such capricious weather is that I’m not able to embrace either season, and the resulting hodgepodge of neither-here-nor-there, multi-seasonal “outfits” (if they can be called that) are either boring or off or just awful.
I cannot wait until the day I can fling myself wholeheartedly into the arms of summer and cavort about town bare-armed, in silky, knee-grazing numbers like these:
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