Do you ever wish that you were born into a different era? That you could experience the lawless underground of the 1920s, or revel in the gum-smacking, bell bottom-laden, disco ball ’70s? To me, that sort of time travel would be a thrilling proposition. And not only for the adventure; sometimes I feel I would’ve fit in better somewhere in the long-lost past.

Am I alone in imagining my anachronistic traits restored to their proper time period? For awhile, my letter-writing habit had me questioning my 21st-century surroundings, as did my later, unrelated fixation on psychedelic rock and the ’60s culture of revolution. And growing up, that was the appeal of American Girl dolls—or really, the American Girl books. I saw myself in all their protagonists: the headstrong little girls who performed heroic feats in their colonial-era petticoats, or who hunkered down with their families during World War II, planting victory gardens and collecting scrap metal for the soldiers of the Pacific front.

More recently, I’ve found that escapist pleasure in front of my TV, on Mad Men. I’m not as die-hard about it as many people are, but there’s something mesmerizing about the ultra-structured clothing—and the ultra-structured façades of characters whose brimming emotions simmer dangerously below the surface. (Plus, I love Joan’s hair, and really, everything else about her.) So you’ll find me on the sofa these coming Sunday evenings, projecting myself into the ’60s and enjoying a cold drink.

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When you’re suddenly bedridden on a three-day weekend, courtesy of a particularly nasty cold, reading magazines is a cheerful way to pass the hours (unlike blowing your nose through entire boxes of Kleenex). In doing so, I was inspired by a section in Glamour magazine, where stylish girls shared their tips for dressing with flair. The catch? They made less than $30K per year…but from their wardrobes, you could never tell! Needless to say, I mined their interviews for money-saving ideas. One girl said that every season, she made a strictly-edited list of coveted closet additions, and stuck to it (rather than picking up items here and there as the spirit moved her). It makes sense, right? Grocery lists keep you from trolling the aisles in search of frivolous sugary purchases, and to-do lists at work keep me on track to get out of the office on time…it’s about planning ahead so you can stay focused and maximize your resources. So I think I’ll do the same for my summer shopping list!

Side note: I’m totally loving Glamour! I didn’t read it growing up (I was kept busy with the ridiculous number of other magazines my mom subscribed to). But they’ve caught my eye recently by featuring thought-provoking pieces on body image, and by practicing what they preach (a beautiful, fuller-figured woman is featured on this month’s cover, in a swimsuit!). I love this—sure, many women’s magazines now feature articles to the tune of “You’re Beautiful Just the Way You Are,” but few offer great work (like cover opportunities) to models who look like normal people. So kudos to Glamour for challenging the status quo with action, not just lip service.

Without further ado, my must-haves for summer!

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For me, new life stages usually beget the realization that I need to change my clothes. Expectations and attitude, sure, but more importantly my wardrobe. What made this post-grad realization different, though, was that I knew it’d be permanent. For that first big college internship, I hurried out for a summertime business-casual shopping spree. But I knew that come August, like midnight for Cinderella, I’d be back in my carefree collegiate duds.

This time, there’s no expiration date on my job, and I was in need of more than those internship holdovers I wore a few Julys ago in Chicago. It was Mall Time! But serious Mall Time, not like those lazy, aimless excursions of junior high. This time, I was ready with a plan of attack, my eye relentlessly on the prize.

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It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned redheads were made fun of for their natural coloring. In maintaining that innocence, I at least had the benefit of being female; my male counterparts likely learned about this stigma much earlier on. (And I was certainly aided in the matter by not living in the UK.)

Rather than see it as a source of shame, I was quite proud of my hair color, which I thought of as a badge of honor. I was partially brainwashed into this opinion by my mother, who (bless her heart) was always pointing out the ginger actresses in People magazine, and to this day still sends me the occasional ginger-themed article via e-mail. As any teenager might imagine, all this positive reinforcement was eye-roll-inducing at the time, but it always made me feel a little bit special at an age when everything else about my appearance felt awkward.

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Over the years, more and more of my relatives have resettled in California. It used to be that the majority of us resided in Illinois; now, we’re evenly divided between Chicago and Los Angeles camps. (Most of them have experienced more than a few Midwestern winters, and I can’t say I blame anyone for choosing sunshine over snow flurries.)

The California contingent is a pretty awesome group of people. There’s my little brother, a film student; my oldest cousin, working towards becoming a screenwriter in Hollywood; and the coolest, most fun aunt, uncle, and younger cousin you could imagine. I’ve really missed them in the years since they migrated to the West Coast, especially since I’ve become a full-time East Coaster.

Given all this, you can’t blame me for spending more than a few lunch hours surfing Orbitz for airfare. And it looks like I’ll be a paying customer of theirs soon, making my way westward to visit L.A. this April. But until I actually step on the plane, I’ll be spending my time daydreaming about what I’ll wear when I step off that plane into the sun. (Humor me, people, it’s January…and raining!)

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