Flipping through this week’s issue of Time I turn a page and there she is. We’ve met before, in the pages of other mags. G’head, click and look closer at her sitting there ó confident and stylish yet casually barefoot cool. In her understated ensemble with one leg parted and hiked up on her understated chair her bodytalk says yes, but you’re in her world now and she’s 65 incredible inches and 103 perfect pounds of No Way, Jack. Instead, she tells us what she tells her girlfriends every day: “It’s not your handbag. It’s not your neighborhood. It’s not your boyfriend.” And they all believe it. In her world “It’s your watch that tells most about who you are,” and there’s no room to be defined by what’s on your iPod, or your Amazon Wishlist, or your compassion, hope, humanity, and humor.
See her eyes? That Mona Lisa-like smirkgaze? She’s not looking for your soul or your heart or your mind. Instead she’s locked and almost laughing at the battered and beloved $40 whatever from Costco you’ve got strapped to your wrist ó and no way is it good enough. “What time is it?” she asks coyly. And before you can check she yells: “It’s time to go ó and get your takes-a-lickin’ functionality and dependability out of here!”
See it’s all about style over there where she’s sitting, and she has so much of the stuff she doesnt’ even have to show you hers. Instead she keeps her Seiko Coutura’s 16-diamond bezel, mother of pearl dial, and sapphire crystal hidden discreetly beneath the long sleeve of her Vera Wang cashmere top. And you can almost hear her laughing when you turn the page.