Cardigan, J.Crew. Shirt & shorts, Banana Republic. Scarf, Holt Renfrew. Belt, Joe Fresh. Sandals, Geox.
A couple of nights ago, I found myself scouring the potato chip racks of a 7-Eleven in my neighborhood. The cashier snickered a bit, so I assumed he was judging the quantity or quality of my purchases (fair enough). He then accused me of having gone to St. Joseph's, which I naturally assumed was a prep school with killer uniforms. He snickered again and claimed it was a NIGHTCLUB. I assured him I would never set foot in such a place (not anymore, anyway), but he didn't believe me because "It sure looked like you in that purple dress." I made my escape before he had a chance to say that I'd supposedly grinded with him or done body-shots off his bros, but this case of mistaken identity has had me thinking. If you happen to see this doppelgänger doing the Jersey Turnpike in a purple dress near you, please know that it is not I. Most nights, I am too busy brushing up on Camelot couture and watching Cami Secret infomercials, which leaves little time for purple-dress-clubbing.