Cool thing about me: I have never appropriately packed for a three-day weekend. When faced with the prospect of a day off work—and, accordingly, some overly ambitious road trip upstate, or train trek to the beach—I lose all rational sense of what clothes I wear and why. I go from being a functional human being who can complete many disparate tasks in a short amount of time, to someone who throws six overly heavy sweaters into a weekend bag and calls it a day.
Blame a temperature-controlled environment, or some sort of pathology. Either way, I’ve given up all hope of ever looking effortlessly styled as I bound from the kitchen of an Airbnb, swathed in seasonally appropriate linen, definitely not barefoot because I remembered shoes other than thick boots.