The Fashionista Files by Karen Robinovitz Read Free Book Online Page A

light.
    He had a tempting tough-guy exterior, but such an air of sweetness. He made eye contact. He was full of compliments and said my shoes were sexy (black Louboutin sandals with four-inch heels and silver zippers instead of straps). He chivalrously opened all doors for me and made sure my glass of water was always full.
    Between his harsh Brooklyn accent, his motorcycle racing, the Harley shop he used to own, the two (permanent) earrings in his left ear, the large tattoo that snakes up his left calf (I didn’t see it on date one, but I heard about it), and the giant scar of a lion he had carved (yes, carved) into his back (that, I made him show me), Todd’s image—not to mention his beat-up jeans, motorcycle boots, and black T-shirt with a red devil on it—was the complete opposite of every nice Jewish boy I had ever dated (and broken up with).
    We came from such different worlds.
    He’s from Gravesend, a hard-core Brooklyn neighborhood with a heavy Catholic Italian population. He was, as he says, a street kid. He turned in his football helmet by the time he hit high school in exchange for a motorcycle helmet and a guitar (he gigged with a heavy-metal band and stayed out partying all night long). His dad split, and Todd, a smart kid with good grades and a bit of an antiauthority attitude, worked to put food on the table at the young age of fifteen, when he got his first tattoo.
    Meanwhile, I’m from a mostly Jewish upper-middle-class suburb of New Jersey, where I attended a private school with a dress code and went on class ski trips to Austria. Mine was the life of summer sleepaway camp, a new car—with bow—on my seventeenth birthday, and SAT prep classes that began in eighth grade. At fifteen, I certainly wasn’t getting tattoos and putting food on the table. I was the type who went to the library on weekends, never stayed out past curfew (okay, maybe once or twice), and used to make steak tartare and Caesar salads with my mom for dinner.
    Back to our date: When I realized it was three minutes to midnight, I needed to go. I had a yoga class at nine A.M. and wanted my eight hours of sleep. Todd sweetly said, “I guess I have three minutes to kiss you before you turn into a pumpkin.” (How irresistible.) After he tucked me into a cab, I watched him walk away and thought to myself,
If he turns his head around to look at me one
last time, it means we’ll fall in love and it’s meant to be.
Two seconds later, he turned. And neither of us has looked back since.
    I love everything about Todd, especially our differences. As hard as he is on the outside, is as soft as he is on the inside. He is the perfect fusion of a gentleman, a rebel, a knight in shining armor, a bad boy, a romantic, a responsibly wild child. He is a rock of stability and the best thing ever to happen to me. While we have the core, important things in common—our values, morals, life desires, psychological awareness, and senses of humor, as well as our need for adventure, weekend hikes, and lazy Sunday mornings— he once joked he’s showing me the underworld (I am learning to play poker and ride a motorcycle), and I’m showing him the upperworld (he’s learning yoga and taking trips to the Whitney Museum).
    When we started dating, we went out for dinner and drinks three to four times a week. I’d always be dolled up (from Chloe jeans, chandelier earrings from Peru, and leather scarves to knee-high boots, classic pumps, and shrunken asymmetrical tops, he really appreciated my style and would take in every detail about my look) and he’d be laid-back cool with a Vanson Leathers jacket (a big motorcycle brand), a silver cross thumb ring, old-school Levi’s, and Chrome Hearts tops that said “Fuck you” on them.
    I happened to love his aesthetic—and still do. His clothes hang on him perfectly, revealing his defined, athletic body just right. And what he wears really suits him. Especially the motorcycle boots that make a heavy clunking