Photo: Courtesy of alltheprettybirds.blogspot.comby Plum Sykes, Vogue
I've never been afraid to admit that I have the legs of a long-term-unemployed supermodel. Being blessed with a 34-inch inseam is something I am endlessly grateful to my ancestors for. In my dating days, my elongated pins were essential weapons that distracted potential boyfriends from another family inheritance-my wonky teeth.
In my 20s I believed there was nothing more of a man-magnet than a dress with a split. I have a photograph of myself about age 29 at a party in the Hamptons, wearing an acid-yellow chiffon Ungaro dress. The hem reaches mid-thigh on one side and is slashed almost to the hip on the other, showing more leg than a can-can dancer. I'm happily waving a martini and a cigarette (both habits long since abandoned). I look like a character from an early episode of Sex and the City, and to my great misfortune attracted boyfriends to match. I died for Versace cocktail dresses because they generally featured a strategically placed slit. I