Sirens and cents

This photo, posted on The Sartorialist, drew ardent compliments, mainly for the Milanese subject's legs. Some persons said she gave them hope, was a marvelous vision of aging, etc.

Do you admire her?

I'd kill to have legs this sensationally shapely. I like how her scarf's tied on her bag, and how her black dress just skims her body. (The bag, a Ralph Lauren Ricky, drew gasps.)

As we age, good accessories are essential, but chances are if you're reading this post (instead of, say, consulting with your personal chef or being chauffeured to your Gulfstream), you're mindful of the staggering cost of beautiful bags, shoes and jewelry.

What to do? Cruise consignment shops, bite the bullet to buy an impeccable bag you'll carry for a decade or more, or hope for a spectacular gift. (Fifteen years ago, my Parisienne GF Daniele was given a black calf Kelly by her late husband. She jokes that Roland, a canny financier, looks from heaven in approval, for the bag's still going strong.)

Compare la donna with the Ricky (let's call her Woman A) to this shot from the Advanced Style blog that Deja Pseu featured on a recent post. Both women caught a photographer's glance; both were admired on their respective sites for flying their signature style flag.

My aspiration is resoundingly toward Woman A, but there are days, in a comfy sweater and flats, that my inner Woman B peeks out. It's all in the aesthetics, which in turn determine the choices, the palette, the grooming.

With styling, Woman B with her orange tote could swap places with Woman A. In a kind of reverse-schlumpadinka-with a half-twist, Woman A could drop her Prada shopping bag, kick off her stilettos, adopt the colour-happy ensemble of Woman B and look less elegant, more hamische.

Woman A wears obviously costly accessories. Sometimes I think, I too could look beyond fabulous if money were no object. But then I realize that's an easy excuse. I need to hone my eye, experiment, seek occasional professional help, and not deny myself a decent handbag. (Go Pseu, in Paris!) That doesn't mean a Ricky, you little enablers.

And no socks with sandals.