“When Alex and I put together the collection, we talked a lot about making sure we had clothes that didn’t feel over-designed or overcomplicated, that were relevant to today but not trendy—that you could wear forever,” Sikhounmuong tells Glamour.”Very last minute, an idea popped into my head for a jumpsuit. I was actually on a trip [to] L.A., and I went to a vintage store and found an old flight suit.”
Courtesy of Alex Mill
It was a lightbulb moment for the designer, who took the concept and modernized it for the Alex Mill spring collection: “We tapered the leg, gave it a bit of waist definition, added some tabs, and just cleaned it up and made it a little bit more relevant to what people are doing these days,” Sikhounmuong says. The team also used a fabric that was lightweight and stretchy, something you can’t always find in vintage.
The response to the Standard Jumpsuit was strong for the get-go, Sikhounmuong says. “Even with the press appointments [before the collection dropped], we were seeing a lot of editors and people coming through and asking about that piece—when it was going to come out, how it was going to fit… When we finally launched it on the website, it quickly became one of the top styles that people were clicking on and purchasing.”
Every time I wear my jumpsuit, someone makes a comment—and even if unprompted, I’ll share the story of where I got it and who designed it.
Since introducing the Standard Jumpsuit, Alex Mill has also released a few variations on the silhouette, including a collarless one and a cargo-esque version that’s been worn by Tracee Ellis Ross. (And really, could there be a better endorsement?)
I’ve even convinced colleagues to get in on the jumpsuit action. Shanna Shipin, Glamour‘s commerce editor, first came across Alex Mill’s Standard Jumpsuit via Nikki Ogunnaike’s ode to it on Elle.com, and then started noticing it on Instagram.
She didn’t actually add it to her, though, cart until she got confirmation that you could wear it as a petite person. (Hi.) “I’m 5’2” so I lost all hope in finding a jumpsuit that actually fit me—and didn’t have a crotch that hung below my knees,” she says. “Seeing it in person on someone my height was all the proof I needed that the jumpsuit is actually an IRL version of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. It looks so good on everyone. Now I’m in the sisterhood and happier than ever.”
Sikhounmuong sees the appeal of the jumpsuit as relating back to Alex Mill’s vission—”of waking up, getting dressed, and not having to overthink it. There’s nothing easier than a jumpsuit. You literally just jump into it.” He says he’ll always try work one in to his collections, “whether it be an old one that we’ve done that people love in a new color or a totally new one,” since he believes it’s important to “be consistent.”
Nikki Ogunnaike, GQ’s deputy fashion director, has written about her love of Alex Mill jumpsuits.
Christian Vierig
Alex Mill’s tagline is “uniforms for individuals,” and the jumpsuit epitomizes it, according to Sikhounmuong. “It’s this idea of it being so versatile that people can put their own spin [on] it. I’ve seen it worn with the top down and tied around the waist, as a pant; I’ve seen it with a blazer over it; I’ve seen it belted, unbelted; I’ve seen it with a turtleneck underneath… It’s just been really cool to see all the options. I think people really appreciate that.”
Join the Alex Mill jumpsuit fan club by shopping some of the brand’s coveralls, below.
It has gotten a little too convenient to shop on social media. No longer is it a matter of passive encouragement, of seeing the same shoe or bag on a dozen influencers and thinking to yourself, ‘Hm, that could be cute.’ It’s now built into the platform. A casual swipe-up can lead to an unexpectedly large cart. Now, so many of the “it” looks are born on our feeds: Nail art, slip skirts, hair accessories—all of these went from one-off double-taps to full-fledged Instagram trends. And it’s not you, casual scroller, who has gone down a rabbit hole and ended up with a bedazzled something in the mail on its way to you.
We talked to a handful of celebrities, and they shared the last thing they bought because they saw it on the ‘gram, from beaded bags to shell jewelry to jeans—lots of jeans.
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My boyfriend and I were nowhere close to getting engaged when we ended things a month ago. It was a smooth parting of ways—two adults looking into each other’s eyes under the Brooklyn night sky, telling each other we liked each other a lot knew we weren’t ultimately compatible. It had been a little over four months and at 33, it was one of my longest relationships.
I don’t feel societal pressure to get married anytime soon. Maybe it’s because I live in New York City. Maybe it’s because I’m still figuring out what I want my life to look like. Maybe it’s because I spent most of my twenties focused on my career. But by the time I arrived on the dating scene, I still had an old idea left over from youth: I’ll be happy when I’m in a relationship. How baffled I was to discover that upon entering one, this was not the case at all. People always say relationships are “work” but what that actually meant, I had no idea. I learned that for me, it means working through a lifetime of insecurities that rear their ugly heads as soon as I meet someone.
In my last relationship, I worked overtime. When he took a while to respond to my text, I let go of the fear that he didn’t like me and leaned into the fact that I knew he did. When he was busy, I didn’t take it personally, I made my own plans. When I felt an existential sadness, I reminded myself that I sometimes felt this way before him too. I slowly learned how to trust myself and trust the relationship and remained positive even though my fear of it ending eventually came true.
Even though our breakup was mutual, I still felt an emptiness. I thought of my friend whose boyfriend recently bought her a gorgeous ring. I was jealous. Happy for her, sure but it’s perfectly possible to feel happiness and envy at the same time. I wanted someone to love me so much that they would buy me something beautiful that I didn’t think I deserved.
I’ve often looked at other women’s hands and the glittering rocks delicately perched on their left ring finger—a status symbol, a constant reminder to them and to the world that they are loved. And isn’t that what a ring is? A symbol of commitment, mutual desire, and a decision to wake up next to one another for the rest of their lives. This is the love I’ve longed for. That I’ve waited to be deemed worthy of.
It had never occurred to me that I could just buy one for myself—that a ring from me to me could be just as meaningful as one from a man—until a saw the most gorgeous vintage diamond ring while browsing TheRealReal after a post-breakup crying session on my couch.
I am not what you would call an impulse shopper. My childhood home was riddled with financial insecurity and I inherited my mother’s frugality. I don’t own any diamonds and the only thing I splurge on is health insurance and my ever-increasing Brooklyn rent. When I saw the 18k gold ring with four diamonds and five emeralds, my mind immediately flashed to what my friends or family would say: How could you afford that? Wow, that was an extreme reaction to a breakup…
After giving it some thought, I realized I cared too much about what others thought of my purchasing decisions—decisions made with money that I made solo, no significant other required. Despite (and also thanks to) my frugal tendencies, I actually could afford it. One click, and the ring—my symbol from me to me that I am loved—was mine.
Courtesy of Emma Grady
Courtesy of Emma Grady
I don’t think a ring will fill the void my boyfriend left but it will represent to me what I decided when I added it to my cart: I will no longer abandon myself to a relationship or expect a romantic partner to give me a happiness that only I can truly give myself.
I didn’t appreciate the value of comfortable shoes until I turned 26. Before then, I walked around New York City exclusively in a pair of high-heeled Chelsea boots. Before long, I ended up with several fractured bones in my foot, and my doctor blamed my shoes. Turns out you should change up your footwear more often. Lesson learned: I needed to find a pair of comfortable yet chic sneakers to wear 24/7 instead.
On my search for the perfect pair, I tried out several popular styles, like the Adidas Shelltoe and the Nike Cortez. They had the elevated part down with their minimal color-block designs, but they never really withstood the test of time. (I walk a lot.) I needed to buy a new pair every three or four months, which was an inconvenience for my wallet (not to mention terrible for the environment). So I started to do research on brands that might be more sustainable. That’s when I came across Veja, an ethical footwear brand that has developed a cult following.
I’d scrolled by actors (like Emma Watson and Emily Ratajkowski) and influencers (like Jacey Duprie from Damsel in Dior) alike sporting the same minimal sneakers on Instagram without hitting “purchase.” What finally convinced to buy my own? A royal Veja spotting. After I saw Meghan Markle break out her Veja sneakers during her Australian tour with Prince Harry last year, I decided I must have them in my life.
I’ve always been a fan of Markle’s laid-back style and admire how she uses her spotlight to promote smaller, eco-friendly brands. She wore her Vejas with a casual black top and jeans, somehow looking much more stylish than I do when I roll down the street to get my coffee on the weekends. If these sneakers are good enough for a duchess, I thought, then they’re certainly good enough for me. Unfortunately, the rest of the world felt that way too. The shoes were sold out nearly everywhere I looked—both in store and online.
Fast-forward a few weeks. After searching and searching, I hit the jackpot when I found them restocked in my size at Nordstrom. I chose Veja’s Espalar style for its minimal black-and-white design and ordered them immediately. Because they’re so simple, they go with everything from long flowy dresses to a jeans and a blazer. I never think twice about wearing them to work, even at a fashion-forward office like Glamour.
It’s not just that Veja sneakers are comfortable and versatile. I can feel good wearing them knowing that they were ethically made, which can’t be said for all sneakers. Veja sources cotton directly from fair-trade-certified farming associations in Brazil and Peru, while the leather is upcycled from leftover tilapia on fish farms.
My Vejas have just one minor downside: It took a couple of wears to break them in. (Tip: Don’t wear them barefoot right out of the box.) The effort paid off, though. These days it feels like I’m walking on clouds. My feet never get tired, even after wandering around the city for 20K steps or more. All that walking hasn’t dulled their shine, either. With the help of a magic eraser, my Vejas stay spotless—perfect for a clean-sneaker snob like me.
Thanks to Duchess Meghan Markle, I’ve been united with the perfect pair of sneakers. It’s been only six weeks and I’m already screaming about my love for Veja from the rooftops. (And from my Instagram, of course.)
The single most expensive purchase I made in 2018 wasn’t a pair of designer shoes, the lamp I’ve been lusting after for six months, or a new iPad; it was a $300 mini trampoline. Long considered a fitness relic of days past (specifically, of the 1980s) it has been a total game-changer in regards to my approach to both exercise and my mental health.
I know you may be thinking, $300? On a mini trampoline? Most people stare at me—incredulous—when I mention it’s now my preferred mode of exercise. It’s like something a 5-year-old hopped up on sugar might ask for at a toy store.
This seemingly ridiculous purchase was initially the result of being Insta-influenced by Busy Philipps. Before this point, I’d tried everything. I suffered through anxiety-inducing spin classes and knee-busting barre workouts. I wallowed in the existential dread of a 90-minute yoga session. After 34 years of avoiding cardio-based workouts like the plague, I had all but given up on ever finding a routine that I actually enjoyed. Working out would forever be a punishment to endure.
Not only that, for years I was terrified exercise would trigger my past disordered eating or over-exercising patterns. At one point, I figured it was better to just avoid it all together. I resigned myself to the fact that a little extra squish around my belly was better than falling down the rabbit hole of bad habits. Instead, I did the work of self love and body acceptance and avoided almost every internet fitness craze, since they all seem to heavily lean into the patriarchal ideal of female physical perfection. Who wants to buy into that load of hot garbage? Certainly not me. (Not to mention the fact that being asked if I’m pregnant is certainly an efficient way of weeding out the assholes of the world.)
Enter Busy Philipps. She made bouncing away on a trampoline look like so much fun that I dropped the entirety of the money I’d been gifted for Christmas in 2017 on an Amazon order in early January. And here I am 12 months later, a full-fledged member of the LEKfit cult. I can honestly say that it’s impossible to do this workout without a huge smile plastered on my face. Glimmers of a familiar youthful glee surface while jumping away in the comfort of my own home—without witnesses. (Please believe me when I say that nobody needs to see this.)
For $20 a month, I now have access to Busy-approved trampoline and mat dance-inspired workouts at my fingertips. There are tons of free trampoline workouts on YouTube, but I’m an avowed LEKfit fan. The vibe is right up my alley: all classes are filmed in LEKfit founder Lauren Kleban’s black and white garage studio and accompanied by the best playlists I’ve ever encountered in any workout scenario (girlfriend has taste). Gone are the days of joyless, dread-inducing workouts. My ClassPass membership was promptly reduced to the bare minimum for the occasional pilates jaunt, and I can honestly say that I look forward to working out now.
The best part is that this trampoline workout is just as effective as it is joy-inducing. Given that it’s a low-resistance workout, I was worried that it wouldn’t feel like much, but it wears me out without feeling depleting. Instead of leaving more anxious than I began, I feel happy.
The second-best part is that having a trampoline in your home makes you the coolest aunt in town. What my home lacks in children’s toys or chicken nuggets, it makes up for with hours spent jumping up and down on a trampoline. There’s nothing like the surprise and elation on a child’s face when I pull this bad boy out. It’s instant “fun house.”
Sure, it’s a spacehog in my small apartment. But I’ve found ways to make it work. In ten minutes I can take it apart and store it under my bed, or I just leave it in the living room and use it as a footrest while lounging on the couch. Laziness dictates that for the most part, so the trampoline is usually just hanging out for most of the time. It’s a bit of an eyesore, but it doesn’t bother me since I use it so often and both my boyfriend and dog enjoy lounging on it.
I had always heard that everyone finds the right workout for them, but I didn’t think it would ever apply to me. I’d just be the kind of person who hates working out, and I’d move through life. But it turns out everyone was right. I hope, if you haven’t already, you find your thing.
As I wrapped my hand around a pole on the subway a couple of weeks ago, an older lady pointed at my left hand and said, “Fabulous ring.” It would’ve been a welcome compliment on its own, but it was doubly so because I bought my engagement ring myself.
If this is a surprise, it shouldn’t be, but even in 2019 it feels like a weirdly bold statement.
It’s no secret that marriage is still a particularly traditional institution, and one that’s accompanied by a long list of things small and large that are expected of people (but mostly women) who enter into it. Some of those assumptions have, thankfully, evolved over the years. (Can you imagine being forced to give up work just because you’re married?) As many of us are choosing to keep our names and get married on our terms, these norms are dissolving. For example, it’s no longer expected that a bride’s family will automatically foot the bill for the wedding. And yet, for all the progress we’ve made, it still feels as if engagement rings are a frontier we haven’t breached.
Even as women have started to increasingly outearn their partners, the thought of a woman paying for her own ring still feels wildly taboo. Maybe it’s because of the myth that any woman who plays an active role in facilitating her engagement is tragic or desperate—thirsty to lock a man down or a demanding shrew. Instead, we’re left to wait and wonder near every Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and anniversary if this is the moment. For plenty of women, a surprise or grand gesture is romantic. For others, the whole thing is about ceding power to a man (and is made worse by well-meaning friends and family who ask, “Do you think he’ll do it then?” before every big vacation).
I wouldn’t expect or want my partner to choose my wedding dress for me. To get the style, the color, and not to mention the fit so right that it’s perfect. Why should a ring be any different?
Over the past year and a half, various people have, sweetly, asked me how my now-husband proposed. I feel like I’m short-changing them when I tell them there’s no story because there was no proposal. Or rather, the proposal was a conversation about whether we wanted to get married (yes) to each other (yes), when we wanted to do that (maybe late summer or early autumn?), and a mutual agreement that maybe a year ahead of that rough date we would need to start planning. This is not a good romantic story.
The romance is all the other bits of our relationship. It’s how he makes me laugh every day before I’ve even gotten out of bed. It’s how I’ve never made my own coffee in our home because he always does it for me. It’s never asking me to go to a gig with him, because he knows I hate live music. It’s his handmade birthday cards and making sure I appreciate the significance of every achievement I make, which I have a tendency to downplay. It’s even, I would argue, in respecting my preference to be actively involved in the planning and logistics of things that happen to me—like getting engaged. My husband is the kindest, sweetest, best person I’ve ever met in my whole life. And the best part is, he knows exactly who I am.
Our timeline of starting to think about a wedding roughly coincided with my receiving the advance on my debut novel. It was a pleasant but not life-altering amount of money, which weirdly made me feel more inclined to do something at least semi-impulsive with it. So I decided the least-frivolous frivolous thing I could do with that chunk of money was to buy an engagement ring.
The author’s engagement ring
I looked at a few gorgeous Georgian pearl cluster rings, but given that I’m fat by today’s standards, I’m certainly fat by vintage ring standards. And although they can be resized, I wasn’t willing to commit to something for which I had no idea what it’d look like on my hand.
After that, it didn’t take long for me to go back to an old favorite: Tessa Metcalfe, whose style seems to perfectly encapsulate the rough decadence of London. I’d bought a Tessa Metcalfe ring before. It was a gold-plated band made of two pigeon claws holding a freshwater pearl. I wore it so much that the gold plating came off and the metal turned silver. It was big, bold, and beautiful and just felt so right for me. A perfect solution, then, seemed to be a version of this ring, except one actually made to be worn every day. I asked Tessa to make one of her ready-to-wear rings but in solid gold so it wouldn’t tarnish, clasping a huge rose quartz with natural rubies set into the claws. It’s so perfectly me that I’m not surprised old ladies on the subway want to tell me how fabulous it is.
Never once did it occur to me during this process that it was inherently my partner’s responsibility to handle.
I would’ve felt guilty at the thought of him spending several hundreds of dollars on something that would only benefit me, when I was perfectly capable of buying it myself.
I very much know what I like. I work with clothes, I love fashion, and I occasionally design collections of my own. Through a combination of my day job (I work in marketing for a plus-size fashion brand) and the money I make from writing and hosting events, I earn more than my husband. This isn’t uncommon, and it doesn’t cause any friction or difficulty in our relationship. (In 2019, why should anyone assume that the man in a relationship is the breadwinner?) I would’ve felt guilty at the thought of him spending several hundreds of dollars on something that would only benefit me, when I was perfectly capable of buying it myself.
We talked about it briefly, and he was fine with it. It wasn’t a huge blow to his male pride or ego, because he is a sensible, rational person. To me, it felt like a particularly neat solution: I get something I want using money I earned myself, and he doesn’t even have to worry about guessing what I might like enough to wear for the rest of my life. It simply didn’t make sense for him to pay for it, let alone choose it.
PHOTO: Courtesy of Bethany Rutter
The author and her husband on their wedding day
Think of it this way: I wouldn’t expect or want my partner to choose my wedding dress for me. To get the style, the color, and not to mention the fit so right that it could be described as perfect. I took so much pleasure in picking out my dress—a kelly-green satin 1940s-inspired midi that also bucked tradition—and my ring feels no different. Although it’s absolutely the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought, it was still considerably less than most engagement rings (probably due to the lack of diamonds) and a tiny fraction of the number that would result from the outdated wisdom that an engagement ring “should” cost “your man” three months’ salary.
I’m thankful that for the majority of people in my life, this was unquestionably just another decision on our path to being happily married. The only people who have been surprised or taken aback when I’ve tried to explain it are people who are either quite a bit older than me or people who don’t know me very well. Women my age in particular have been overwhelmingly supportive of my choice to buy my ring myself.
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