I Barely Pack For Vacation!

This is for my carry-on girls...my one swimsuit, swear-by pants, and more.

Hell froze over, and I am writing about what I wore on vacation. Anyways..this is kind of like a…diary!?

What I loafed in…laughed in…laughed in…loaf, laugh, love

SWIMWEAR

I write this piece as I’m on the sands of Saint Martin wearing 1.5 bathing suits. My lack of swimwear, a pink string-thing thong I wring out in my hotel sink and a dripping red bikini top limply clinging to the shower head, reminds me of a fantastic piece from the Vogue May 2004 issue where fashion writer Plum Sykes was invited by a new beau to St. Bart’s on a sun-soaked vacation. For this event, Plum writes that, to the aghast of the bronzed babes with names like Fruzsina, she brings only one bikini. (Celine, Michael Kors-era.) Now, Plum and I are different people. She marinates in the Cotswolds and wears stirrups. I disintegrate in Brooklyn and suck down old Chobani from Key Food. But when it comes to the lack of bikinis, we are in the same boat. (Though, perhaps Plum is on a yacht.)

For context, like Sykes, I was also going on vacation, but to join four of saucy friends who bonded in a demented group chat that was birthed from a…Throwing Fits dinner: Magasin’s laura reilly (shopping visionary), designer EMILY DAWN LONG (saucy slogans and intensely made knitwear), writer Alyssa Vingan (absolutely stellar culture takes), and watch brain Brynn Wallner (ask her about quartz vs. mechanical). We were to frolic at the grounds of a hotel, aka the bliss-drenched La Samanna in Saint Martin.

Typically, I am someone who would buy a bedraggled swimsuit from Target, but a few