One of the many many problems in my overly complicated life is the following: everyday, to get home, I have to pass by the windows of the Isabel Marant boutique.
And all too often, despite my avoidance strategies that are as Machiavellian as they are resourceful (a call to my accountant, a trip to the bakery for some deliciously oozing pastry, a moonwalk), in the end, I always pass by the door.
So often I run into Olivia. Olivia knows how to wear Isabel. And I am perfectly capable of resisting clothes on hangers, perfectly capable of taking a look at them and feeling the fabric without even really considering it, but to put something like this right in front of my face, something worn so well that it just promises sexy comfort, well, it’s just plain cruel.
And especially when the promise of sexy comfort in question comes right after I have just stuffed my face with an oozing pastry as quickly as possible to be able to walk into the shop because hey, just a quick look, only be two seconds.
Ah, the tricks, traps and vicissitudes of modern life… I love my new pants!
Translation : Tim Sullivan