What I Can't Live Without: March 2024 Edition

A monthly catalogue of obsessions

In the 1990s, walking into a Body Shop was a borderline pilgrim experience. I was a child then, so I would accompany my mom into the location at the Quinte Mall and marvel at the dark green facade, swirly serif-font logo adorning the products, and the interior strewn with tidy sachets of pumice stones and jars of peppermint foot cream. (“Why on earth would anyone ever need foot cream?,” trilled my eight-year-old’s inner monologue.) I was particularly taken with the medicinal-smelling banana shampoo, which has taken on a Proustian-level of significance in my memory, with the juicy citrus scent of satsuma body butter, and astringent tea tree oil products a close second. The whole business had a sheen of hippie activism about it and the “Animals in danger” endangered species campaign is so firmly lodged in my consciousness that I still occasionally trawl Depop looking for promotional t-shirts covered in hastily-drawn cartoon animals whenever the urge claims me. They were proto- “clean beauty” before it was cool and their corporate activism seemed a tinge more authentic than the blatant greenwashing we see today, though admittedly that could just be because they were experienced through the guileless eyes of a child. My recollections of the brand are so fond, for a while I was predicting an inevitable nostalgia-driven resurgence, akin to Bonne Bell Lip Smackers or body glitter. Instead, the opposite has happened. The Body Shop, ripe for discovery by a new generation, declared bankruptcy at the beginning of the month.  

Last Sunday afternoon, I took a trip to the Eaton Centre store to pay my last respects to the brand. The store was still relatively well-stocked and little seemed amiss besides some markdown stickers and 30% off signs. Not having stepped foot in a Body Shop for at least two decades, I found the giant wall of body butters borderline breathtaking. Avocado! Shea! Coconut! Olive oil! I wanted them all. I left the store with a respectable haul consisting exclusively of products that loomed large in my memory: banana shampoo, hemp hand cream, strawberry lip butter, satsuma body butter and a random bottle of spiced orange body wash I liked the smell of. It came to $61.70. When I asked the cashier when their last day of business was, she shrugged and said the store might not be closing. “So my nostalgia purchase might be all for naught?” “It sounds like you have more nostalgia than I do,” she responded.

Without further ado, here is everything I’m obsessed with this month.

What I’m Considering

I’m not going to lie, I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be a person who travels with a Rimowa suitcase, aka the ‘Final Boss’ of luggage. The classic aluminum carry-on costs $1,860—an objectively insane amount of money to pay for anything—but I’m consistently seduced by the idea of paying a lot of money for a good quality thing one time and then never having to buy it again. There are plenty of aluminum dupes on the market, but none of them have the glamorous designer-label sheen of the Rimowa. (Admittedly, my name worship is partially fueled by a picture I saw of an Alexander McQueen x Rimowa suitcase embossed with a ribcage skeleton in Vogue when I was in high school.) Is it worth it? GQ says yes. I say…maybe someday.

What I Actually Bought

Because apparently I’ll never beat the bougie allegations, I just purchased two new pairs of Wolford tights to replace the one I got in 2015 that finally turned their last revolution around the sun: the Pure 50 and Velvet De Luxe 66. I haven’t taken them out of the package yet, but having already owned a pair I’m certain they’ll be great. Plus, after an extremely ill-advised dabble with Sheertex, which are absolute garbage, I will never buy another brand of tights ever again.

I had been admiring these, yes, barrel-leg trousers on sale at “Showcase,” the upscale boutique of the Double Take thrift store near my house, for weeks before taking the plunge. They post new items to shop online every Friday, and if you can look past the godawful photography, there are some great deals to be had. I’ve spotted Loro Piana cashmere, Gucci wallets and MaxMara coats for $100 or less.

What I’m Reading/Watching/Enjoying

-British Vogue has made some real banger contributions to the “famous author writes about clothes” category lately, with Zadie Smith on age appropriate fashion and Leslie Jamison on dressing for life after divorce. (Although my two-year long dalliance with reading divorce memoirs is finally in the rear view mirror, I still can’t wait to read Splinters.)

-Raquel Laneri’s delightful story on Lyn Slater, the professor-turned-influencer whose book How to Be Old comes out this week. Slater renounced influencer-dom two years ago and now apparently spend most of her time in gardening overalls. I felt really seen by the line, “When she began letting brands dictate the items she would put on her body, she no longer felt fully herself,” which reminded me of an essay I wrote a few years ago on personifying clothing as a pathway to sustainability that I will have to republish here soon.

-Every time people on the internet say something is bad, I refuse to form an opinion on the cultural object in question until I’ve engaged with it myself—often to varied results. I was initially drawn to Molly by Blake Butler, a haunting recollection of a widower’s grappling with his wife’s suicide, via the lurid controversy surrounding the book. But I found it to be a deeply moving, brutally human account of life with a flawed person. The book is about suicide, yes, but it is also about being alive. I highly recommend it.

What I’ve Written

-A very exciting piece in the latest print issue of FASHION grappling with the irony of being a fashion journalist who believes in reducing consumption while simultaneously being addicted to buying clothes. A quote:

Every evening, I perform a fusion ritual with my phone and disappear into a universe populated by tiny thumbnail images of garments I would like to own. Toggling between the RealReal, SSENSE, Depop, and Poshmark apps, I imagine what my life would be like if I owned that Rachel Comey jumpsuit or that Cecilie Bahnsen dress: where I’d wear it, who I’d flirt with in it. Occasionally, I am overtaken by a dark force and click ‘buy’, but more than anything, I scroll. Most of my waking hours are spent playing Purchase Tetris, arranging and rearranging my current obsessions into a structure that allows me to acquire each and every one, meanwhile a closet of beautiful clothing hangs undisturbed in a room nearby.

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-A story in the latest issue of Toronto Life about obsessive collectors such as Eddy Texeira, a KISS fan so devoted he transformed his entire basement into a shrine to the band.

What Made Me Laugh

Last Word

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