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Setting the pace: 3 things I changed to take better care of myself

Sometimes, all you need in life is something to hold you accountable... Like your body reminding you that you made the promise to take better care of it. 

I used to think that new year's resolutions were a myth, a facade you use in front of people so you'll pretend to have a plan for the year ahead, the project to be and do better. I believed that new year's resolutions were an excuse for past behavior, a fake goal to have something to talk about at parties and dinners. But in reality, it's been almost three months, and I kind of think I'm kicking a** at resolutions. 

It's a common belief that we tend to let go of our new year's resolutions after three months because we have realized that we might have set the bar too high. After six months, it has become a vague souvenir, an idea we thought about and quickly deemed too hard to achieve. And finally, at the 12-month pinpoint, it has turned into an excuse for your new resolutions. 

Although I'm still currently at the baby stage of sticking to my resolutions, I feel quite confident in saying that I might have figured it out... Did I finally find the right ones? 

New year, new me... Well, new mindset. It was time to have better thoughts and words, and care for myself and my body. It's self-care time baby! So here are the three main things I implement to take better care of myself.

First thing: sweating! 

With the plan to start working out again, I signed up for ClassPass. Clearly, if 2022 proved one thing, it was that I couldn't stick to a gym routine when working out from home. It was too easy for me to look at my yoga mat from the comfort of my couch and contemplate the idea of putting on leggings while I was slipping on sweatpants. With the attention to getting my body back on track of peace, I started to sign up for a different class each week: hot yoga, chill yoga, reformer pilates, barre, modern aerobics, boxing, cardio dancing... The list goes on.  

Surprisingly I realized it was not the whole sweating that gave me the sensations of peace and happiness, it was the curiosity of trying new things. If I'm confident my body could handle more than one or two sessions a week and that I would see more results by doing so, it was not my first intention to get in better shape, getting in better mental shape was the main goal. Signing up for only one class a week meant having a body care ritual, something I knew I could commit to, and stick to. 

Second change: brushing and rinsing 

When I came across the "shower everything" TikTok trend, I thought I would give it a go. It meant trying to find small rituals I could add to my routine which basically means: spending as much time as I can in the bathroom before jumping into bed. We're talking hours, not minutes. It meant: dry brushing, makeup removal, face cleansing, exfoliating, masking, before stepping into the actual shower, scrubbing, then washing hair and body, then hair mask, and body lotion. 

While this ritual is only meant to be performed once a week and has proven to help to sleep better, I still keep on dry brushing a couple of times a week. What I also started to implement into my daily shower routine is rinsing my legs with cold water. If it helps get the blood flowing, for me it gives me a feel-good feeling about sticking to a routine that makes me feel good about my body and makes me see it a different way.

Last thing: nourishing

To say I've always had a bad relationship with food is an understatement... Growing up with a mom quite obsessed with her weight, but not necessarily ours, put the idea in me that I should be obsessed about mine too. Unfortunately, it meant starving myself rather than paying attention to the way I was actually nourrishing my body. Now 28 years old, I'm finally trying to stop feeling guilty about what I eat in a day and instead pay attention to what meals and nutrient could make me feel good. I won't lie, it's a long way to go. 

My new obsession? Understanding how my body works through my cycle, also knows as: finally trying to comprehend my period rather than complaining about it for a week, and learning the names of the other phase of my cycle. 

Overall, my new year's resolution has turned from "taking better care of myself" to "understanding and accepting myself". 

I guess it's an adult kind of thing. 



Brushing my problems away

 There's a saying in French that goes "il faut souffrir pour être belle", also known as "you must suffer to be pretty". 

I resent it, even though I grew up with my mom trying to brush my curly hair and calming my nerves with this particular phrase as if it would make the pain go away. I hate the idea that as women we have to always be silently in pain, and yet I keep inflicting myself with the same daily ritual for the past month: dry massage. 

The original idea: thinking I could feel better about myself and stop inflicting my body with the idea that I have to be thinner. 

The reality: not seeing any results but believing I actually feel better (well kind of) after installing this body and self-care ritual. 

If you're not familiar with the ancestral ritual of dry massage, where have you been? I was first introduced to this type of self-massage which consists of essentially brushing yourself from feet to belly and then from hands to heart when one of my friends was getting married. In search of body care that could help her get in shape for her wedding, she came across some beauty guru dry massage routine and sent it my way for me to review it.

It didn't take long or me to get my hands on Ruhi Dry Body Brush and start my own journey of dry massage. I must say, my ritual didn't last too long. I couldn't tell you why... Probably the lack of energy to have a sustainable self-care routine. Yet, here I am, 2+ years later, giving the dry massage another chance. 

What started as a way for me to inflict yet another idea that my body wasn't enough and needed to be thinner, smaller, better, quickly turned into an almost daily ritual, and an excuse to spend way too much time in my bathroom. As I'm writing this, it's been a month or so, maybe two, since I started dry massage again. And I can confidently say now... That I don't see any results on my body.  In fact, my cellulite has been left intact. 

While I'm not here to complain about the lack of investment of my body to join me in this wellness journey, I must say it's been a bit frustrating but the overall impact is way better than the disappearance of cellulite because I've installed a ritual, a mean for me to take care of myself and have some time alone to just relax. 

I've never been a truly consistent person. In fact, I was never able to keep a routine going. Take my lockdown push to start having a green smoothie for breakfast, for example, it lasted as long as the lockdown went on (the first one). And as for my wish to follow a 30 days pilates challenge, I kept going until day 8. So it's safe to say that I don't really like to stick to a routine. The good news is I've been able to be (almost) successful with the dry massage because it forces me to stop and just take the time for myself. And even though it's not the easiest task to brush your dry body for at least 5 minutes until you turn red, before hopping into the shower, I couldn't be prouder of myself, at 28 years old finally succeeding at keeping a ritual. 

Being written down, and on the web space, I'm confident in saying that it might be hard to stop now, and face the risk to disappoint the 2 or 3 people that visit my blog.



Where did common sense go?

It's a weird feeling, to have your picture taken in the middle of the street when you have absolutely no idea you're being photographed...  

I thought I would actually feel ecstatic when I would see my outfit shown off in some Instagram account dedicated to real street styles. Turned out it was quite the opposite.

Last Saturday, while I was enjoying a rainy day of shopping around Paris to find the perfect dress for a friend's wedding, something quite weird happened to me. As I was leaving the store I'd spend most of my morning in, someone snapped a picture of me getting rained on while I was on my phone trying to figure out my way back home. The funny thing is I didn't realize it until later when I was having lunch with my boyfriend and a friend messaged me: "Isn't it you?", with a picture attached. 

Indeed it was... 

What spooked me is when I realized that it was the same outfit I was wearing on that particular day. Either I had been guilty of outfit repeating or this picture was taken on the same day. Examining it closely with my boyfriend, we soon realized that I must have been photographed at least 30 minutes prior. It felt weird. And it didn't take long for other people to share the same picture they have seen on someone's Instagram I didn't even know. Turns out the account, that had taken my photo and decided to share it to Instagram,  without my consent I might add, was 124K followers, content creator and pilates instructor Alice Pilate. 

Should I have felt flattered? 

Spoiler alert, I didn't. In fact, it was quite a strange feeling, a sensation of intrusion, and voyeurism. It felt weird. 

What really struck me was the fact that she was facing me when she took the picture, she didn't hide my face, she didn't wait for me to turn around so she could capture my outfit from the back. She simply stood in front of me, snapped a picture and left, without acknowledging me. Truth be told, I kind of felt used.


So let me ask you, where did common sense go? When did we say, as a society, it's okay to photograph or videotape random people on the street without them knowing? 

Why is it so easy to hide behind our screens? Do our phones actually serve as a barrier, a protector so we can do or say whatever we want on the internet? Because I didn't get the notice saying so. Is it really that hard to come up to people afterwards and say: "Hey, I love your outfit, I took this picture, do you mind if I share it with my 100K followers on Instagram?". I'm honestly asking... 

If you're wondering, I did message her when I saw the picture, saying "Hi, it's me in the picture", waiting for her to respond to say a bit more about this whole exchange, but obviously my DM must have gotten lost in the ocean of messages from her community. 

It didn't end there though. 

Later that day, another friend shared another Instagram story with me. Another account, another 100 K-something audiences, and yet another Instagram story with my picture, nicely taken by @alicepilate. I'm sorry, where is my mention? 

I did message the account @parisiensinparis, saying again: "It's me in the picture!"... No response. 

While I didn't capture the outfit was wearing on that particular day, I had been wearing a similar version of this outfit, as pictured above. Please enjoy it, as I have decided to share it on my own terms. 

I really thought that I would feel great the day I would end up on this particular account. I didn't imagine I would feel so frustrated with the whole situation. But on the bright side, more than one person liked my picture on that very first rainy weekend of February. 

And I guess I had my 24 hours of Instagram fame. 


How to dress like a fancy grandpa

While I was heading to work a few weeks ago, I came across a very nice-looking man. As he passed by me, I was subjugated, mesmerized, I couldn't look away from him. He was probably in his 80s and looked a bit grumpy, but he was stylish as hell. 

The whole interaction probably lasted around 10 seconds, if not even less. And when I resumed to real life I realized that if I was so obsessed with this complete stranger was probably because I was almost wearing the same thing. 

Please note that I'm not saying my style is amazing, but rather that I have the style of a french grumpy grandfather. Let's call that the "Grandpa style". 

I must admit it didn't really come as a surprise since a couple years ago I found myself speechless in front of this old Taiwanese couple that went viral on Instagram. Wan-Ji Chang and Sho-Er Hsu, both 83 and 84 years old own a laundromat in Taiwan and have been in the laundry business for almost 70 years. They became internet-famous when their grandson, Reef Chang, set up an Instagram account for them to show off outfits they put together using clothes left behind at their laundromat. 

If the idea behind the account @WantShowAsYoung was mainly to prove that there's certainly no age barrier when it comes to fashion, and you can be the most stylish person in the room no matter where you come from or the year you were born, for me, it was quite different. In fact, I wanted to dress like them. And there they were, this 80-year-old couple from Tawain, my new inspiration, the influencers I actually needed in my life, the new show that would be the end of my Netflix subscription. After all, who needs to binge-watch the new Netflix show when you have this couple on Instagram both inspirational and entertaining. 

well, actually, the reality is you can have the best of both worlds, especially when Netflix came out with the second season of The Politician and a new serial killer documentary that same year. 

Maybe you'll have realized from my last couple of blog posts that I care less about trends than I do about A timeless style. I'll grant you that I do love myself a good grandpa outfit, I'm sure if you look at Wan-Ji Chang and Sho-Er Hsy, you'll find out that they don't have much of an "old people look". They have a fun and colorful outlook on fashion, not caring about the trends but rather caring about the clothes they wear and the style they love. But to be fair, there is something timeless about the way they dress too. 

There is something so compelling about older people in general. The way they couldn't care less about what people think, and don't mind saying what's on their mind, even if it can be a little bit hurtful. I love my grandmother but the moment she told me that she didn't like my new hair when I tried new highlights will forever haunt me. 

If a new generation of 50 and plus influencers is currently rocking the blogosphere and showing off at fashion week, I'll forever idolize grandpas (and grandmas but mainly grandpas) walking slowly around Paris with a baguette and the newspaper in their hand, or strolling with their shopping basket, glasses on their nose, hat on their head. And like I said I do dress like them without realizing it. 

Large pants, a white tee-shirt, a sweater or a masculine blazer, a cap, and sneakers have been my "off-duty" and "weekender" look for a while. The kind of outfit you put on when you don't know what to wear, the one you feel good in. Sometimes, I'll feel adventurous and swap the oversize blazer for some kind of oversize jacket. Need actual proof I actually dress like an old man? I shop secondhand and strictly into the men's section, buying way too much large pants, shirts, or blazers. I did buy not one but two vintage men's coats last year. 

So if you feel like dressing like an old man or a less cool version of Diane Keaton, you'll need :

- A blazer, preferably vintage, mandatory oversize (aim two or three sizes up), and from the men's section. Note that your blazer must have at least two inside pockets if not three. 

- Large pleated pants. Keep in mind that it's quite hard, if not almost impossible to find the perfect pair of vintage men's pants in thrift stores. I'll allow myself to digress from secondhand and go for new but timeless pants from COS, Arket, The Frankie Shop, etc. 

- A vest. I'll be honest, I haven't really succumbed to the charm of this not so newly trendy piece. I've seen it too much on Instagram to associate it with the "fancy grandpa" style. I do love an excellent sleeveless fitter blazer kinda vest though. 

- a large sweater or sweatshirt you could sleep in at the end of a full day of running errands while doing crosswords on the couch. Living the life of a fashionable grandpa can be exhausting. 

And the list could go on and on. What I do find useful for inspiration is to look up Pinterest pictures of this New Balance campaign, where they used older people to show off their sneakers to prove that no, New Balance sneakers are not for runners only. 

Please follow me on Instagram for more grandpa inspos. Don't be fooled by the very feminine outfits. Winter is coming, and so is my true old-man style. 



This is why I hate Fashion Weeks

While this event is the most expected one for most people, well the ones that care about fashion in the world anyway, I actually hate Fashion Weeks. Here's why.

Defining time for the fashion industry and most closets following trends, fashion week is, for me, a dreading moment, a not-so-kind reminder that I'll always be under-dressed while going out, and that I might not actually like my outfits, no matter what. And as expected, the starting point of the oh-so-existential question: "should I get rid of everything in my wardrobe?". 

(Spoiler alert, the answer is always no.)

Coming back from a week in New York, where I managed to avoid Fashion Week by arriving just a few days after the mayhem, I was quite pleased with my fashion findings in the city that never sleeps and apparently never stops to amaze you with vintage treasures. Going from vintage boutiques to thrift shops, watching all my savings disappear in just one credit card swipe, I was unstoppable. Well, until my bank decided it was time for me to either stop all shopping activities or reload my account. After two or three money transfers from one account to another, it was time to stop the bleeding and put an end to the shopping addiction

But it was quite hard to not look at everything the vintage shops had to offer. How could I resist a vintage Tahary yellow skirt when she fit me perfectly, although the lining could have been less tight? But who cares when the skirt would go amazingly with the yellow vintage Saint-Laurent blazers my boyfriend got for me for my birthday. How boujee of me to pretend I'm a high-end vintage lover, when in fact, I dress like an old man or a cheaper version of Diane Keaton

Anyway, as I was saying, shopping in New York went great. Well, if you ignore the fact that I thought I bought a vintage pleated checked skirt that made me look like Blair Waldorf if she had been nicer. It took me a few days, a week to be real, to realize that I didn't get the skirt while going through my NYC laundry and checking my account balance. I'll blame that on the jet lag and the stress of starting a new job. 

I'll go back to the main subject now if you will. Coming back from the big apple with two suitcases full of new vintage founds, I couldn't be happier... Until I stepped foot in rainy France where the temperatures had drastically dropped and the sun had definitely left for greener regions. While I did find some great pieces in New York, I forgot to mention, all of my new timeless wardrobe additions were perfect for warmer days. Back in France, I was left with old pieces that I'd worn a hundred times. But that was fine with me, the new me, on a journey to buy less and more sustainably. The key issue here was to learn how to wear the clothes I've already worn so much, in a different way. So I tried things out. 

A few days ago, while I was strolling around Paris with my most fashionable friend, I realized I was not happy with my own outfit. It didn't feel like me. I've been so mesmerized by the outfits inspiration on Pinterest, I've lost my way. But lately, I've been lacking inspiration, the envy to dress up, the idea to put out outfits I'll feel good in. And trust me when I said that going out in the middle of Fashion Week, was not the best idea. 

Walking along the gardens of Palais Royal, I was surrounded by the most fashionable people. It was a fashion show on its own. A catwalk of fashion experts. Among them, I was just a wannabe, an outcast, a tourist, and a visitor. I was ready to get rid of all my clothes and give in to the whole idea of changing a wardrobe according to trends. And there I was, ten steps back on my sustainable adventures. It was the moment I realized I truly hated Fashion Week. 

While the idea of people coming together in a city for a week of fashion extravaganza is inspiring and mesmerizing, the idea of waiting to see what the future of fashion is holding for us is disturbing.  Let's face it, if fashion people organize their whole year around fashion weeks, it's not a good sign for a more sustainable world. After all, the idea to buy sustainably is to buy less and review the way we buy. You could say "what we see on runways can inspire us to shop in our own closet to recreate the same look", and most of the time it works. Until the moment you end up searching for the perfect vest because you got rid of the vests you had in the 90s, thinking the trend would not make a comeback. Same with low-rise jeans. Or ballet flats

Aiming to buy less or find timeless pieces, I've officially let go of fast fashion to look for quality pieces that will last. Obviously, it also means shopping for items that I will wear for years and years, and not trusting the trends in the process. I know I still have a long way to go but I'm trying my best. If I hate fashion week so much, it is also a problem of always wanting more. But if the industry doesn't change and keeps going on its fashion week track, what will the planet be like in a couple of years?  

Just a few thoughts. 



2000s rom-com or the wonderland of wrong ideas about love

Am I late to the conclusion that Rom-Com movies wrongly led us to believe how a man should behave? 

Currently in between two jobs (having left my Senior Fashion Editor position I occupied for almost 5 years). As I'm taking the time to calm my nerves and get rid of my anxiety before starting a new job,  I enjoy my free fall days by watching movies I've probably watched a million times. 

Although Just Like Heaven was probably my favorite rom-com growing up, now at 28 years old with no diamond ring on my finger, but an 8 years long relationship to my record and a "still not ready" boyfriend by my side, the Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo love stories tasted different. The "I love you" moment you waited for the whole time sounded not right... Well, I know what you think. Obviously, it's just a movie. And no, some random guy can't really see the ghost of a "stuck in a coma" girl because they were supposed to meet but didn't because he canceled the date and she had an accident; let alone fall in love with her ghost in only a few days. If there's one thing binge-watching Love is Blind has taught me, is that it's not love but rather lust, or chemicals that led you to believe you're in love after you've spent all your time with someone. 

As the credit rolled down, I was not finished with the whole rom-com nonsense. Next up was Carrie Pilby. Have you ever seen the movie where a child prodigy who has trouble enjoying her life in NYC meets a cute neighbor, who you might have seen in Narnia? He takes her dancing in the middle of the busy street, lends her his coat while she's shaking in her sweater in the middle of winter, and they kiss under the new year's eve fireworks on the fire escape stairs of their building. Who has even danced in the middle of the street at midnight anyway?

If the way I've met my boyfriend and the love of my life could be the plot of a Nora Ephron or Nancy Meyers movie (let's keep this story for another time), my relationship is far from being as dreamy as Harry and Sally. Okay, I'll admit I can't really complain, having found love in actual real life rather than on an app. But, being an adult, in an adult relationship, I'll say that life is far far far far away from what we see on TV. I am aware that I'm late to the conclusion that rom-com from the 2000s are highly overrated and dated, especially for younger generations. But, what about us? The generation that grew up thinking that a man could actually love to cook you dinner, serenade you in a fire escape of your building, and cry because they've spent an amazing week with you in snowy England and they now have to watch you drive back to the airport to return to sunny Los Angeles. Where are the men, romantic movies from the 90s and 2000s created in our minds? 

While I am aware I'm a lucky girl in a happy relationship, silly me, thought that when leaving Paris, my boyfriend, and my dog, for a fun and chill week in New York City, my boyfriend would surprise me during this trip and finally propose. Spoiler alert, it did not happen. If I'm not actually disappointed by the lack of diamond on my left hand, I am indeed disappointed that my life lacks some Kate Hudson rom-com potential. Especially after walking the streets of New York City with my own movie soundtrack like I was Meg Rayan in You've Got Mail. Imagine my surprise, when my lovely boyfriend did not come to join me on this lovely trip but did drive to pick me up at the airport and even greeted me with croissants. I'll leave out the fact that he did not see me coming out of the "arrivals door" and I actually had to stand in front of him with my tired-looking eyes and my two suitcases for him to realize that yes, the strange girl in her PJ in an airport, was me. 

Why do we always expect men to do more? To actually act like they're from a romantic storyline, standing in front of our front door, after a fight, with cardboards listing every reason they love us? Why are we so disappointed when they come into the living room asking what's for dinner when we thought that they'd have organized a date night, dinner in a nice restaurant, followed by a walk under the stars, all of that with a classical band following us? 

Well, I know why. Because the reality is, and I apologize for ruining your dreams, far from what we see on TV. Because in real life, there's stress, there're tiring work days, a dog to walk, dinner to cook, laundry to do, cleaning waiting for our time, and just not enough time or energy to act like we're in a movie. And it can be hard to realize when all we see on social media is how lucky couples act like they're on their honeymoon all the time. But breaking news people, what we see is only what people want to show, just like a rom-com. 

And while I'm writing this rant, knowing I can't really complain about my love life, especially when my lovely boyfriend did organize a surprise date night in an incredible Italian restaurant. I do feel lucky to be in love and to have found love in real life. 

Although, a girl can't never have too much romanticism in her life, ever.




Let me know when you think of anything

 A couple of days ago after our groceries were left on our doorstep, I came to the realization that something was really wrong. Not only because they forgot my fresh pasta among other things. But because my boyfriend reminded me that I forgot fresh veggies for our weekly healthy, well kinda, tortillas. As he realized my mistakes, he added "You'll have to order it tomorrow".

Funny enough, this isn't about the fact that I purposely forgot about the veggies but the fact that he was expecting me to place the order. No worries, my boyfriend of almost 7 years isn't the kind of man that will expect a woman to do everything, well not on purpose. He didn't wait for me to respond before adding "sorry I meant we'll have to order it tomorrow." Although he realized his mistake, the damage was already done and it led me to think 'how did we come to this?' 

Growing up as the last child of a family of five and three children, I was a late bloomer on a lot of different levels, but this story's for another time. What I meant is apart from cleaning the table after dinner and putting my dishes in the sink or dishwasher after breakfast, I didn't learn how to do my laundry before leaving for a two weeks vacation abroad when I was 17 years old. I didn't know how to use the vacuum cleaner, let alone know how to clean my own bathroom until I was close to leaving the house for a year of studying in Dublin and living on my own.

Although for some people I might be right on time and even for some ahead of my time, for me and myself only, and probably to the liking of my family, I was definitely late to the party. Because my parents had a very clear idea of adult life, they expected us to be out of the family house before turning 25. Imagine my parent's concern when my 25 years old sister was still fully leaving at home with no intent to leave anytime soon... Let's say that on her 25th birthday, my dad came home from work with a really ugly and embarrassing hat for her to wear to celebrate her not intent to move. Fortunately, I escaped my not-so-funny father's rit of passage by having the keys to my first real apartment a day after my 25th birthday. To be fair I had already left at 20 years old for Ireland, only to come back 9 months later, not with a baby but with six suitcases after way too much shopping in lovely Dublin. By the time I moved into my new and not-so-shiny apartment with my boyfriend, I was independent, I did my cleaning, my dishes, my laundry, my grocery shopping. My boyfriend on the other hand... Was on a whole different level.

Being the daughter of a very Jewish mother, my mom always wanted me to follow along with traditions and learn how to cook very typical, traditional, Jewish dishes for the Shabbat diner. I did not learn how to cook but I did catch the love for cooking and spending time in the kitchen. By the time I celebrated my 16th years old birthday, my mom was sick and my dad was the one having to cook for the three of us every day. When I turned 18 I decided it was time for me to help out, and from time to time I managed to cook a lovely meal for the two of us. For my boyfriend, on the other hand, it's another story. I grew up with a very privileged and coddled brother, who was the prince of the house, protected by my loving mother. So let me start my writhing that with this experience with growing up with a boy at home, I expected all men to be this way. I might be wrong but my boyfriend's upbringing proved to me I was not, in his case.

I re-encountered my boyfriend while leaving abroad in Dublin. The two of us met on an exchange student trip in London when we were 16 years old. Oddly, we ended up in the same city 4 and a half years later although we had completely lost contact. He messaged me on my 20 years old birthday after he saw on my Facebook page that I was leaving for Dublin a few months later. 'I guess I'll see you in Dublin', he had typed in. 4 months later we met on a corner of a busy street in the city center of Dublin and ended up spending the whole day together. After this first date, we didn't leave each other sight and spend most of our time walking and talking. I quickly realized we didn't live the same lifestyle when he started describing one of the three meals they cooked in the dorm he was sharing with two other students. Let's say, that he didn't cook for me for about 4 years after this. The first day I went to his dorm, the small apartment was not feeling very lovely. The whole place was dark, cluttered, and small. In his room, piles of clothes and empty shopping bags, and rolls of toilet papers were laying on the floor. The bed was not made. While dishes were piling up in the sink, an almost empty orange juice bottle was having a party with pasta's leftover and a pack of beer in the fridge. I did not set a foot in the bathroom.

When we got back to France, we were splitting our time between my parent's house and his family's apartment. While at his place, I realized how things were easy for him. His mother was doing most of the meals, while his dad was taking care of the laundry. His small room was a continuous mess. You would expect a 21 years old boy to have a sense of organization, he did not. Every time I stepped into his room, I thought to myself "boy, living with you is not gonna be easy". I was not wrong.

When we finally moved in together after 5 years, our relationship took a turn I didn't expect. We were now sharing a living space while being two completely different individuals. The first time we argued in the apartment, the unmade bed was to blame. The second time the dishes got in the middle of it. The third time, it was the vacuum. It took a year for us to find a balance and a routine where we each had our share of chores. After two years of living together, I cannot say it's perfect. By adding a new member of our family, still not a baby but a dog, things took another turn because now new chores were adding up. While my boyfriend does most of the walking, I do most of the feeding and we share the cleaning and playing, there are still things that fall on my hand regarding the house chore. Especially when it comes to thinking about it. While my boyfriend knows when our fridge is empty, I'll have to remind him that we need to go shopping. When clothes are piling up in the laundry basket, I'll think to load the machine and ask him to unload him. And it goes on and on. Why is it that women always have to do the thinking?

In old movies, women often ask their screen male partner "What are we going to do?". In reality, my boyfriend asks me this question daily. While I'm not complaining, well actually I am, I wonder why, when it comes to chores, men are ofter the ones falling behing. Should we still pin this on the patriarchy, when does it all end? In the 60s women were expected to stay at home and take care of the house and the children while men were out making the money. 70 years later, most men are still expecting women to be in charge of the household may they be aware of it or not. Is it going to take another 70 years to create a new reality for the household? Just the time for new parents to teach their sons and daughters to be equal when it comes to taking care of the house.

Just some thought on the question...



The Wonder Woman Syndrome : The benefits of a Power Outfit

The power of a good outfit is striking.

I’ve never felt more powerful than when wearing a blazer. I put one on and "tada" I look like this girl who knows what she wants. I’m like a superwoman, minus the whole saving the world thing. Okay more like a businesswoman who doesn’t have time to look up to make sure she’s not running into a moving vehicle. 

No, forget about that, I’m a French woman. The authentic, the original, the unbelievable French woman. And people are looking at me like « damn who is that girl ». And I feel so good. That is... until I walk into dog poo. 

Well, that's actually just storytelling. Don't get me wrong, I do feel powerful in a blazer, but for the whole 'walking into dog poo' part, that actually never happened to me. Yet. But it is funny, isn't it? The way a simple clothing item can give you the confidence and the power you never knew you needed to start the day. 

The fun fact is I've never really liked a blazer until I reached a certain age where wearing a blazer was the other way to show how professional I was, that is, the day I started interning. Even at that stage, wearing a blazer was an image of working, I couldn't wear a blazer outside of work, it felt uncanny, strange, deeply uncomfortable. The reality was far from it, I simply hadn't found the right jacket! 

So here I was, a couple of years later, wearing a blazer and heading out to work. As I was walking, I realized how good I felt. The lines I wrote to start this article, I actually wrote two years ago. To this day, the feeling hasn't changed. The only thing that did change is my habit of wearing a blazer. 

What has changed? You may ask. I found the right jacket, the right fit, the right feeling. 


I may be a fashion addict, but believe it or not, my collection of workwear jackets was quite limited. Not being a fan of blazers for many years, I had maybe one grey checked print blazer, fitted, bad quality, and uncomfortable. The funniest thing? I only wore it when I had a job interview, or when I graduated from college. 

I put blazers aside, keeping my small collections for special occasions. But on a sunny day in Paris, walking through the Marais with a good friend, trying to find the entrance for the Vintage fair we were attending, something unusual happened. On the crowded alley of second-hand clothes, between tons of Levis 501, and flowery dresses, there it was, the vintage blazer I never knew I'll fell in love with. But the deal wasn't set from the get-go. If the brown checked pattern was screaming for my attention, the man fit, added to the XL size, was intriguing. As my friend was trying to convince me to try it on, I slipped the large jacket on my shoulder over my badly chosen dress of the day. Though my snake printed dress is a statement piece on its own, the no-name blazer couldn't care less. It was there to stay and make a statement on its own. 

It didn't take long for me to decide if I would take this good looking guy home. Swiping my card on the machine, I didn't think twice. And to this day, I still feel lucky I came across this second-hand item. 


As my love for blazers grew, my collection expanded, and my desire to wear them outside of a work environment changed. Slipping a blazer on my shoulder is now a synonym f empowerment for me. Maybe it's the large padded shoulders or the whole meaning behind this workwear piece, blazers give me the confidence, the power, the desire for greater things. They turn me into a Wonder Woman on my own. 

So that's my power outfit, what's yours? 



The Slut Shaming is back! Better than ever...

What a great way to start the week. Ophelie telling me that I should put the list of my past relationships online and see how it goes for me. 

This morning as I was getting ready to start a great week at work, I came across a sad, heartbreaking, devastating realization. The Slut-Shaming is back, and better than ever! This concept that was so 2018, is still there to shake our (already) bad year. 

Last week, as part of my day job as a fashion and entertainment journalist for french media Les Éclaireuses, I wrote a piece on the timeline of Selena Gomez's past relationships. What was supposed to be a liberating article about how a woman can have as many relationships as she wishes to, turned into a satire, an insult, a picture of how a woman can be, please stay seated, a slut... 

As I opened my laptop this morning, I was glad to know that the piece I wrote last week had reached a significant amount of readers and views. Nothing could prepare me for the sad reality I was about to face as I was opening the comment section. Selena Gomez, a free spirit, an inspiring and empowering woman of 28 years of age, was not seen as the great person she is. Far from it, she was defined by the amount of relationship she had in her life. 

'Slut', 'she didn't waste any time', 'she's a home-wrecker', 'nothing can stop her from getting a man'... The list goes on. Speechless, I went through the comments section trying to understand what had happened. 

What really shocked me wasn't only the fact that every opinion was unambiguous, but the fact that when it comes to a man, the rules don't apply. While a single, free, sexually active, and unapologetic woman is, to the general opinion, a whore; a single, free, sexually active and, unapologetic man is just the sexiest man alive. Why? When women have to apologize for their behaviors, men just have to be themselves. The example is simple. Leonard Dicaprio, serial lover, notorious bachelor, and respectable owner of one Oscar has had not less than 14 relationships. No need to add that the actor is known not only for his dedication for the future of our planet, but also for his passion for Victoria's Secret models, and young women half his age. On the other end, Selena Gomez, singer, actress, committed and accessible, has shared the life of 10 men and has been single for two years. On one side, there's a bachelor, not even bashed once for dating girls way younger than the actor; on the other side, there's a younger girl, that keeps getting headlines for starting a new relationship when she was supposed to stay with the Biebs. What the actual f*ck? 

Who actually cares? 

The idea was not to compare, nor highlight the fact that the singer has had quite the numbers of conquests. It was just a picture of how Selena Gomez had found love more than once, and how beautiful it is. 

But then, there it was, the only comment that was determined to set my heart, and my anger, on fire. From a wave of insults, Ophelie typed: 'Why don't we ask the editor of the page to list her relationships as well, so she can see how it goes?'. Was she talking about me? She was. 

So as I typed my answers to Manon, Camille, Martine, Josephine, and then Ophelie... I couldn't help but wonder: 'why is it acceptable to judge a woman based on her past relationships when we swoon in front of a man relationships?'. No one was bitching about Leo, Brad, Zac, or Ryan's former flames. No. Every eye was turned to Miley, Ariana, Selena, and Taylor. 

The reality was brutal. Never have I ever, in my 26 years of living, been confronted to the concept of slut-shaming. I had heard about it, sure, but did I think that in 2020, people were still slut-shaming women for the way they dressed, the way they behaved, or the person they loved? No way. But there it was, the frightening signs that our society is run by a 90 years old man, who believes that women are forever pure, virgin, and respectable. The most disturbing thoughts arrived when I realized that modern females were commenting on this article, insulting one of theirs. How is slut-shaming still a thing? In a world where this is our bodies, our choice, where women's rights are human rights, where we demand equality, where black lives matter, and he for her, how does slut-shaming can have its place? It doesn't. But as long as a right-minded person will believe that the values of our society are still the same as the 1960s, slut-shaming is always going to be there. It is our job, and the job of future generations, to believe in new values, to believe in freedom, equality, and to believe that everyone is free to live his/her life as he/she wants. 

So please, Ophelie, if you're reading this, I would be more than happy to share the very very very very very short list of my past relationships, only if it shows how every person I've been with has changed my life for the better or the worst, and not translate as a picture of how prude or how slutty I am, as a woman.


Talk to you later. 


We share everything! But do we really?

Earlier this year, as I was having dinner with my boyfriend, I told him about how proud I was to have lasted 27 days without spending any money (on clothes at least...). I couldn't keep up the good work for 3 more days because as a fashion editor, let's face it, it's a miracle to spend a week without buying something you've put on five 'must-have' selections.
Anyway, Zara had revealed yet a new collection, and I had my eyes on a pair of pants, that I already own in two different colors. Let's say, that I couldn't let those white ones go. But I was able to last 27 days, without buying anything, clothes-wise, and I was proud, to say the least. But my boyfriend surprisingly wasn't impressed with my capacity to not draw my credit card for a whole month. 

As I was explaining to him the great joy I was feeling, literally liberated and more aware of my spendings, and after being able to choose wisely what I wanted to spend my money on this month, he corrected me. 
'Our money', he said. 
When did my money become our money? Does it just grow into 'our money' whenever you are a proud participant of a long-term relationship? 

Historically speaking, to say one's woman money is her partner, would make us go back to the 60s. It wasn't until 1965, that women, finally, at least in France, were allowed to open to their own bank accounts without the approval of their husband. This law voted in France marked the beginning of freedom for women, who didn't have to rely on their husbands. 

In a relationship for over 5 years now, my boyfriend and I have always joked about the fact that we shared everything, including money. Of course, this was particularly valid, when we shared money as long as it affected his bank account, rather than mine. In fact, for the first couple of years, our relationship relied on his ability to work and get paid, while I was still at school, not financially independent. When I first started to work, our dates and other outgoings still relied on him, since he was making more than I did, three times more, to be exact. 
Being a young, financially dependent women, money was a surreal concept for me. Although I didn't grow up with loaded parents, throwing money at me like a spoiled child, my parents reasonably responded positively to my shopping demands, when needed. I wasn't spoiled nor wasn't to pity, I was the normality. A kid that could ask for something to her parents, that would grant or not her wishes. You could be sure that if my mother sensed that my wish to have yet another Barbie doll was unreasonable and absurd, she'll just let me cry my eyeballs out until I moved on and realized she was actually right. 
I didn't fully understand it, not until I had to pay for my own expenses, taxes, and charges. So of course, it was easy for me to attribute someone else's revenue to myself when actually it wasn't mine to have nor to spend. 

Now, as we share an actual household and have a joint account, supplied every week or so, equally from our parts, you could say that 'my money, his money, are our money'. But does my money have to be all his and the same for him? 
Getting into an argument about it, he couldn't understand how my money had to be all mine when we were supposed to share everything. When I don't lecture him about the fact that he's bought yet another pair of sneakers when our wall still needs some decoration, I couldn't figure out why he was so upset, okay upset may be a strong word, let's say, annoyed about the fact that I bought a stupid pair of pants.  At the end of the day, my money is mine first before it has to belong to anyone else. As part of my freedom and my rights as a woman, my money is mine until I decide to do whatever I want to do with it. My money and well as other sensitive topics, concern my happiness and my rules. 

Did I get this right?