Had the perfect Saturday last weekend—only so much has happened in between that I’ve had to put off sharing the bits and pieces till now.
Perfect, as it turns out, is formulaic. It almost always involves being out of home base (and preferably, in New York) and one of the prerequisites is spending at least half the day by myself, exploring. Wake up, catch the 9am train, read a book to pass the time (The Secret History by Donna Tartt is my book of the month), and land at Penn Station, Google Maps at the ready. Flat shoes are a requirement despite my predilection for footwear that adds height, because I’m a girl who loves to adventure by foot. Living in Jersey doesn’t offer that luxury, and while it does mean my heels get their cost per wear, I’m the first to admit that the sedentary lifestyle is doing no favors for my 20-something derrière.
I digress.
The recipe also calls for a two base ingredients: two tickets, one for a show, one for a gallery. Submerging in the arts is key to sanity. And happiness.
On this Saturday in particular I added a few more stops. First, a trip to 123 Lafayette Street for the Glossier Showroom (more on that later) where I waddled through swathes of girls to admire the famed brrch floral arrangements. Two Lidstars and one Birthday Balm Dotcom later, I was off to Urban Zen for “Her Time Is Now,” a small but thoughtful installation curated by Mashonda Tifrere. (I found Lacey McKinney’s paintings especially powerful.)
From there, I took the longer route to New York Live Arts theater, having gone through the pop-up gallery much more quickly than anticipated. The lobby was already bustling with early birds, all gathered to see BalletNext’s spring season. I was there for the innovative take on such classical an art—but I’d be remiss not to say that I purchased a ticket purely out of artistic interest. Violetta Komyshan, ballerina at the company, social media sensation in her own right, and (shamelessly) one of my style and body #goals, would be starring.
She did not disappoint. The space was perfect for the shows, and the show perfect for the space. I instantly wanted to take up classes, work out, and also chide my mother for not being a militant dance mom.
I don’t have photos to properly document the rest of the evening, so I supposed you’ll have to take my word for what happened next. I was ready to park my now-sore derrière (I’m out of shape and all those 12,000 steps clocked took their toll) in By Chloe for a solid vegan meal and an excuse to sit, but was barely able to finish my Greek salad before getting ushered out for an emergency evacuation. Throngs of policemen would say nothing except to avoid going up the block—and although the bomb squad trucks gave it all away, no one was fazed. Welcome to New York, ladies and gentlemen.
And so, I was (gently) kicked to the curb and back out on the street. Left to my own accord, I found myself at Tory Sport, ready to throw my credit card at a brand new sports-bra-and-leggings combo. The ballerinas had suddenly inspired me, and told myself I needed something beautiful to motivate me. Luckily for my bank account, the store didn’t have my size. I walked out empty-handed.
All else was a blur. I killed time at the Museum of Sex because it was the only thing within the vicinity of Mexicue. By night I was ready to play the part of the extrovert: grab a taco and a drink for a friend’s birthday dinner, cozy up with my man, trek down to DanceSport for the go-to, bi-monthly Latin social, Salsamania. I unbuttoned my vintage men’s Dior cardigan for a jumpsuit with cutouts, traded my these-boots-were-made-for-walkin’ boots for strappy satin heels. I didn’t end up dancing much—I was more exhausted from the day than I’d like to admit—but it was full, and it was as perfect as perfect gets.
Until next time—wishing you all a fabulous week. Mondays are fine; weekends are just better.
. . .
xx
Your turn. Thoughts?