I figured out how to dress like I live in a Nancy Meyers movie (even though my kitchen is literally a corner)

Okay so I have this completely unhinged fantasy that has nothing to do with celebrities or money (though honestly, wouldn’t complain about either). It’s about waking up in one of those Nancy Meyers movie kitchens – you know exactly what I’m talking about. Like, sun pouring through these massive windows, copper pots hanging everywhere that would literally bring down the ceiling of my studio apartment, and a kitchen island that’s bigger than my entire living space. I’m wearing something that looks effortlessly put-together while making some elaborate pasta situation, even though in reality I once burned ramen. Actual ramen.

This whole thing got way more intense last weekend when my roommate Jess and I did a complete Nancy Meyers marathon. We’re talking “Something’s Gotta Give,” “It’s Complicated,” “The Holiday” – the full emotional journey powered by way too much Thai takeout and this wine that cost more than I usually spend on groceries in a week. Somewhere between watching Meryl Streep run her perfect bakery and Kate Winslet’s cottage glow-up, I had this moment of clarity: sure, I can’t afford a Hamptons house with a kitchen that looks like Martha Stewart and God collaborated on it, but I can absolutely dress like I do.

Here’s the thing about Nancy Meyers movies – they created this whole aesthetic that’s basically become lifestyle porn. Her characters are these successful, sophisticated women who have their careers figured out (their love lives are usually a disaster, which honestly makes me feel seen). They live in these incredible houses with neutral everything and fresh flowers that probably cost more than my rent. And they dress in this way that says “I’m comfortable but also if my ex saw me right now, he’d realize what a massive mistake he made.”

So the next morning, slightly hungover and fully committed to this new direction, I’m standing in front of my closet asking myself: what would Diane Keaton wear to make croissants at 6 AM? And somehow the answer just came to me – this specific combination of pieces that, when I put them together, literally transport me into the part of a rom-com where I’ve finally realized the obvious love interest was right there all along.

The foundation is always – and I mean always – a button-down shirt. White is classic but pale blue works too, or maybe a really subtle stripe. The key is it should look slightly too big, like you borrowed it from the successful architect who’s about to have his big romantic realization about you. I found mine at this thrift store in Brooklyn – it’s actually a men’s Oxford that’s got this perfect amount of wear at the collar. Like it’s been loved but not destroyed. I roll the sleeves twice, never three (three times feels try-hard, and Nancy Meyers women don’t try hard, they just effortlessly succeed while making elaborate meals).

Next comes the knitwear situation. In Nancy’s world, cashmere isn’t luxury, it’s basically a human right. I’m not quite there financially – my “cashmere” is what my mom calls “a nice synthetic blend” – but honestly? Same effect. What matters is this slightly oversized sweater, either crewneck or cardigan style, in some neutral color that makes you look like you understand wine beyond “the red one” and “the white one.”

I have this camel cardigan I found on sale at Nordstrom Rack like three years ago that’s become my actual personality. It’s got these wooden buttons and pockets deep enough for my phone, my wallet, and all my emotional baggage about being old enough to relate more to the moms in these movies than the daughters. I wear this thing constantly, and when a barista told me I looked like “someone who has their life figured out,” I literally almost cried right there at the counter.

For bottoms, it depends on what scene I’m living in my imaginary movie. If I’m making Sunday breakfast after spending the night with the architect, it’s these wide-leg linen pants that swish dramatically when I reach for organic maple syrup on a shelf that’s way too high. For gardening (which I don’t actually do but love dressing for), it’s straight-leg jeans with that perfect lived-in fade. The common thread is comfortable but structured – nothing tight or clingy, nothing that would prevent you from running dramatically down a beach when you realize you let the right guy walk away.

Shoes matter so much – Nancy Meyers women don’t wear uncomfortable shoes unless it’s for a work event where they’re going to meet their soulmate. My rotation is either classic white sneakers (Stan Smiths that I obsessively keep clean despite Austin’s mission to destroy anything white I own) or these slip-on loafers that cost way too much but make everything look intentional. Winter means ankle boots with a reasonable heel that says “I could run for the bus but I’d prefer not to.”

But accessories are where the real magic happens. Nancy Meyers characters understand that details make the difference between “I just threw this on” and “I am a complete human with hobbies and a backstory.” A delicate gold necklace that looks like it has sentimental value (maybe from that life-changing trip to Paris?). A watch that seems vintage but actually works. Reading glasses on a chain when you want to look serious about the novel you’re editing in some perfectly lit reading nook.

I went completely overboard with this last part – got these tortoiseshell reading glasses from Warby Parker even though my vision is perfect. I wear them pushed up on my head when I go to the farmers market, which feels like cheating but has definitely improved my experience at the heirloom tomato stand.

The final essential isn’t even clothing – it’s a market tote. Canvas, slightly structured, big enough for multiple baguettes and a bouquet while still having room for manuscripts or architectural plans. Mine literally cost twelve dollars at a grocery store in Texas but photographs like it’s expensive in this “I care about sustainability but also aesthetics” way. I carry it so much that people constantly ask where I got it, and I’ve created this elaborate story about a small artisan in Vermont because the truth felt too boring for the character I’m playing.

Look, this outfit isn’t going to actually give you the kitchen island or Meryl Streep’s bakery success. But the first time I wore the complete look – oxford shirt, camel cardigan, wide-leg pants, loafers, fake glasses, market bag – to my usual coffee shop, the guy behind the counter gave me a free muffin. “You look like you deserve it,” he said, which is exactly the type of meaningful but casual interaction Nancy Meyers characters have all the time.

Now when I’m having one of those days where everything’s going wrong and my apartment feels impossibly small and Austin feels too hot and too loud, I put on my Nancy Meyers uniform and something just… shifts. I stand straighter. I move more purposefully. I feel like I could handle an awkward dinner with my ex and his new girlfriend who’s definitely younger than me. I feel like I might own property near water. I feel like someone who has an actual wine collection instead of three bottles from Target on top of my fridge.

This extends way beyond just how I see myself. Last month I wore the full ensemble to meet my dad for lunch and he immediately said, “You look really good, like you’ve got everything figured out.” I was literally in the middle of a career crisis and had forgotten to pay my electric bill, but in that outfit? I just nodded like a woman who might impulsively buy a winery.

People definitely treat me differently when I’m dressed like this. Sales people actually approach me in fancy stores instead of avoiding eye contact. Random people ask me for directions like I would obviously know the answer. A real estate agent once tried to show me a condo that cost literally ten times what I make in a year, just based on my outfit suggesting financial stability I absolutely don’t have.

There’s definitely something problematic about the whole Nancy Meyers thing – it’s very white, very wealthy, very straight and traditional. It represents this specific type of privilege that most of us will never actually experience. Those kitchens alone require generational wealth or at least being incredibly successful at whatever Meryl Streep’s character did in “It’s Complicated.” (I’ve seen that movie like fifteen times and still can’t figure out her job beyond “makes amazing pastries” and “has perfect lighting.”)

But there’s also something genuinely powerful about clothes that make you feel like you’re the main character in your own life. When I’m wearing my Nancy Meyers outfit, I make more eye contact. I speak up more confidently in meetings. I order complicated drinks without apologizing for taking up time. I act like someone who deserves to take up space, who has interesting opinions, who might reasonably expect to find love later in life with someone emotionally available.

The best part? This whole formula is actually pretty accessible. You don’t need money to pull it off – just an understanding of proportions and patience to hunt through thrift stores for the perfect oversized button-down. These are classic pieces that never really go out of style. And they work on every body type because the silhouette is forgiving without being shapeless.

So no, I can’t afford the house or the lifestyle. My “kitchen island” is literally a rolling cart from IKEA that gets stuck on the uneven floor of my apartment. But when I’m wearing my Nancy Meyers outfit, moving around my tiny kitchen making dinner that’s way too complicated for a Tuesday, I feel like I’m just one meet-cute away from my happy ending. And honestly? Sometimes, especially in this city, that feeling is worth more than all the coastal real estate in the world.