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ThE Man Repeller

The Man Repeller

May is upon us. In exactly three days, the falsely pegged May Flowers, which come in the wake of April Showers by way of the nursery rhymes of yore will not start blooming but we will watch for them. And as we do that, we will likely also consider that with May comes the rancorous preparations for June.

If you are passively reading, it is likely that you’ve skimmed passed the adjective “rancorous” without so much as thinking twice. If you are reading more actively, the changes are higher that you’re wondering why in the good name of perfect, San Diego-esque weather I would describe the preparations for the month of June as anything less than delightful.

“This, I assume, is probably because you’ve been the victim of at least a handful of June weddings.”

And every woman who has had to forfeit her right to basking in the romance of early summer weekends for the sake of not just attending a wedding you probably shouldn’t have been invited to in the first place, but feeling victimized by a strange urgency to wear a frustratingly awful dress, understands fine and well that with that experience comes only resentment.

The Man Repeller's Fashion Advice

This, I assume, is probably because you’ve been the victim of at least a handful of June weddings. And every woman who has had to forfeit her right to basking in the romance of early summer weekends for the sake of not just attending a wedding you probably shouldn’t have been invited to in the first place, but feeling victimized by a strange urgency to wear a frustratingly awful dress, understands fine and well that with that experience comes only resentment.

I’d had crushes before, certainly. Adam and I, for example, had previously shared a very special moment on a sagging plastic couch in our preschool’s playroom. One time, I kissed Warren Steimatzky on the cheek, and I thought Johnny Bravo was so cute! Compared to the transcendent passion I would soon experience, however, these liaisons barely qualified as passing flirtations. Here was an entirely new brand of worship.

Marching down the Fall 2013 catwalks of February, a made-over pink resurfaced in spectacular fashion. Dusky, pastel iterations of it graced the runways of Céline, Simone Rochas and Carven. This season, matchmakers at Kenzo and Rochas dressed the color up in mohair and boucle and boiled wool. I spotted it on Vogue.com and Michelle Obama. You probably saw it photographed on the arm — or shoulders — of Hannah Bronfman and Alexa Chung. If you did, you know that it didn’t just look good. It looked strong. No longer the meek rosé of Aurora’s robes or even a riff on Elsa Schiaparelli’s shocking pink, this new hue is somehow steelier. The woman wearing it is one you don’t want to cross. In fact, she’s someone I want to be.

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