Dear Phillip, I love you. / by laurel

Oh, Phillip Lim comma 3.1.

First, there was the year I spent wanting this dress.

Spring 2007

Then the first thing you did that was even remotely affordable or accessible turned out to be sort of ugly. Sorry, no offense. White shirts just aren't my thing. 

Then, as if that wasn't enough, you went right there with your spring '08 collection (and by 'there' I mean Aladdin and Genies and the Arabian Night that is inside this magic lamp, aka MY MIND, aka The Place Where All The Magic Happens). You opened me up to a whole new world, a magic place I never knew where cargo pockets, drawstrings, and FLOWER PRINT could coexist harmoniously--not hanging off the backside of a surf bro from Oceanside, but rather, fluttering delicately from the nether regions of a fashionista. Your harem pants cum board shorts are the stuff my dreams are made of. 

Naysayers be damned, Phillip. What you do for plaid, hibiscus, and thatching should be awarded, applauded, upheld as the pinnacle of Women's ready to wear. 

And then you go and show me a romper. A romper with specially designed BIRKINSTOCKS. Could there be anything more comfortable on God's green earth? Maybe a hug and a kiss from George Clooney. MAYBE. But you took something frumpy and hippie and made it chic and hip, and moreover, Phillip Lim, you had me at onesie.

Your perfection almost brings tears to my eyes and there isn't enough space on my computer to hold all the files of photos from your collections that have my bleeding heart in a vise. Spring '08? The things you did with draping and color are enough to cause my heart to palpitate. But Summer chugs along and here you come again with a collection of perfectly muted, perfectly flowing, perfectly tailored-in-all-the-right-places, perfectly feminine-meets-boy-wear, perfectly perfect dresses, tops, pants and skirts, and Phillip? YOU. COMPLETE. ME. 

I mean look at us. Crying like schoolkids. Holding hands and frolicking through fields of posies, you in a plaid shirt, me in a plaid shirtdress. Two of us riding nowhere, spending someone's hard-earned pay. You reciting poetry, me over the moon, swooning in midnight blue silk. See how perfect things could be?

So I might be crazy, Phillip, because I bought these in honor of you. Or I might just be crazy in love.

With you.