Tokyo in Style
When Laura and I aren't traveling together with our families, we do take time to explore the world as individuals. This week during spring break, my son and I joined my husband on his most recent trip to Tokyo. My husband travels a good amount for work, and today I’m a college professor with more flexibility than when I was pulling in 70-hour weeks in advertising. I left the big fat job (and, devastatingly, the big fat paycheck) in favor of a lifestyle that would allow us time together on the odd business trip whenever possible, and our little family is all the better for it.
Fashion-wise, Tokyo is the kind of place you’d really benefit from having a Shoperone. In a place where the culture and fashion swing the pendulum from ultra-conservative to outer-space, it was almost impossible to find and curate my stylistic true north without Laura. To be clear, I was planning to shop the shit out of Tokyo, but I knew I could also run the risk of bad judgement the scale of the time after the 5K in Miami when we convinced each other to buy size zero clothes at Armani because we felt invincible. If two Shoperones can make mistakes sometimes, how would one hold up solo in a land where knee-length sweatshirts and 4-inch platforms are the trend?
Flat Laura to the Rescue
I’d anticipated this vacuum before leaving, and so Laura suggested I bring along a surrogate to help me maintain a sensible equilibrium. Besides, Laura is home and up to her neck in shopping for college and boarding schools—the kind of shopping that comes with an oppressive price tag (kind of like a sportscar), but without the short-term buyer satisfaction (more like a medical bill). In my experience, when buying college education, you don’t see dividends until decades later.
In their past school projects, our younger kids have had to take around a “Flat Stanley” on their adventures, so we figured we’d try it out too. I think of Flat Laura kind of like an analog avatar to remind me not to make bad food or fashion choices. Even on vacation, we can mostly remind each other to behave when it comes to skinnying up a Mojito or opting for the whole wheat pizza crust—mostly. Flat Laura would be there to gently nudge my rational side, not stoke the flame of the side that craves wachos (that’s waffle fry nachos, and together we discovered them at some swilly bar in Hoboken). Flat Laura wouldn’t be swayed, no matter convincing I am, or how much real Laura also loves wachos. Flat Laura was already in my wallet, boarding the plane. This way, I’d have my compass and real Laura would get a little taste of the adventure without the dry skin from a 14-hour flight.
Laura relaxing in the Air France Lounge.
