I have this recurring fantasy that doesn’t involve Ryan Gosling or winning the lottery (though I wouldn’t say no to either). It’s about waking up in a Nancy Meyers movie house, specifically the kitchen – you know the one. Sun streaming through massive windows, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack that would collapse my rental apartment walls, and an island the size of Rhode Island. I’m wearing something effortlessly chic while making a complicated pasta dish, even though in real life I once set off the fire alarm trying to boil water.
This fantasy intensified last weekend during a Nancy Meyers marathon with my best friend Emma. We watched “Something’s Gotta Give,” “It’s Complicated,” and “The Holiday” back-to-back, powered by an obscene amount of takeout and a bottle of wine that cost more than my first pair of designer jeans. Somewhere between Meryl Streep’s bakery scenes and Kate Winslet’s cottage transformation, I had an epiphany: while I can’t afford a Hamptons beach house with a kitchen designed by God herself, I can absolutely dress like I own one.
Let’s be honest – Nancy Meyers created an aesthetic that’s more than movies; it’s a whole damn aspirational lifestyle. Her characters are successful, mature women who have their shit together (career-wise, at least – romantically they’re usually disasters, which is weirdly comforting). They live in impeccable houses filled with neutral linens and fresh flowers. And they dress in a way that screams “I’m comfortable but also might bump into my ex looking like this and that would be fine.”
The next morning, slightly hungover and fully committed to my new life direction, I stood in front of my closet and asked myself: “What would Diane Keaton wear to make croissants at 6 AM?” The answer materialized like I’d conjured it from the cashmere-soft ether of Nancy’s imagination – a specific formula of pieces that, when combined, transport me directly into the third act of a romantic comedy where I’ve finally figured out that Jack Nicholson was the wrong choice all along.
The base layer is always, always a button-down shirt. White is classic, but pale blue or a subtle stripe works too. The important thing is that it should look slightly oversized, like you borrowed it from the successful architect who’s about to realize he’s in love with you. I found mine at a thrift store in Williamsburg – a men’s Oxford that’s frayed just enough at the collar to suggest it’s been loved but not enough to look shabby. I roll the sleeves up twice, never three times (three is trying too hard, and Nancy Meyers women never try too hard, they just succeed effortlessly while making elaborate meals).
Layer two is the knitwear. In Nancy’s universe, cashmere isn’t a luxury, it’s a constitutional right. I’m not quite there yet financially – my “cashmere” is often what my mother would call “a nice blend” – but the effect is the same. The key is a slightly oversized sweater, either a crewneck or a cardigan, in a neutral tone that makes you look like you understand wine beyond “red” and “white.”
My holy grail was a camel-colored cardigan I found on sale at Nordstrom Rack three years ago. It’s got wooden buttons and pockets deep enough to hold my phone, wallet, and the emotional baggage of realizing I’m approaching the age where I relate more to the mothers than the daughters in romantic comedies. I wear it at least twice a week, and when a barista once said I looked like “someone who has their life together,” I nearly proposed on the spot.
The bottom half of the equation depends on the scene in my imaginary movie. If I’m making Sunday breakfast after a night with the aforementioned architect, it’s wide-leg linen pants that swish romantically when I reach for organic maple syrup on an unnecessarily high shelf. For gardening (something I’ve never actually done but frequently dress for), it’s straight-leg jeans with a perfect worn-in fade. The common denominator is comfort with structure – nothing too tight or clingy, nothing that would prevent you from dramatically running down a beach when you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake letting him go.
Shoes are crucial – Nancy Meyers women don’t wear uncomfortable footwear unless they’re at a work function where they’ll meet their future love interest. My go-tos are either classic white sneakers (Stan Smiths that I keep pristine despite New York’s determination to ruin everything white) or those easy slide-on loafers that cost a fortune but make everything look intentional. In winter, I switch to ankle boots with a sensible heel that says, “I could run for a taxi but prefer not to.”
Accessories are where the magic really happens. Nancy Meyers characters understand that details make the difference between “I threw this on” and “I am a fully realized human with interests and a backstory.” A delicate gold necklace that might have sentimental value (perhaps from a trip to Paris that changed everything?). A watch that looks vintage but keeps perfect time. Reading glasses hanging from a chain when you want to seem serious about the manuscript you’re editing in a sun-dappled corner.
I went all-in on this last element – found a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses at Warby Parker even though my vision is 20/20. I wear them pushed up on my head during farmers market trips, which feels like cheating at life but has resulted in markedly better service at the heirloom tomato stand.
The final, crucial element isn’t clothing at all – it’s a market tote. Canvas, slightly structured, able to hold several baguettes and a bouquet of hydrangeas while still leaving room for a manuscript or architectural plans. Mine cost $12 at a grocery store in Maine but looks expensive in a “I care about the environment but also aesthetics” way. I’ve carried it so much that strangers stop me to ask where I got it, and I’ve developed an elaborate lie involving a small artisan in Vermont because the truth felt too mundane for the character I’m playing.
Let me be clear – this outfit formula won’t actually give you a kitchen island or Meryl Streep’s bakery success. But the first time I wore the full look – oxford shirt, camel cardigan, wide-leg crops, loafers, fake glasses, market tote – to my local coffee shop, the barista gave me a free pastry. “You look like you deserve it,” he said, which is exactly the kind of meaningful yet casual interaction Nancy Meyers characters have regularly.
Now, when I’m having a day where everything is going wrong and my apartment feels too small and New York feels too loud, I put on my Nancy Meyers uniform, and something shifts. I stand straighter. I move more deliberately. I feel like I could successfully navigate an awkward dinner with my ex-husband and his much-younger girlfriend. I feel like I might own coastal property. I feel like someone who has a wine cellar instead of a wine rack from Target.
The magic extends beyond my own perception. Last month, I wore my full Nancy ensemble to meet my dad for lunch. He took one look at me and said, “You look good, like you’ve got your life figured out.” I was actually on the verge of a minor career crisis and had forgotten to pay my electric bill, but in that outfit? I nodded sagely, like a woman who might impulsively buy a vineyard in her third act.
I’ve also noticed people treat me differently in my Nancy clothes. Sales associates actually approach me in fancy stores. Strangers ask for directions like I would definitively know the answer. A real estate agent once tried to sell me a condo that cost approximately eight times my annual salary just based on my outfit’s vibe of financial security.
Of course, there’s something a little problematic about the whole Nancy Meyers aesthetic. It’s overwhelmingly white, wealthy, and heteronormative. It represents a very specific kind of privilege that most of us will never actually experience. The kitchens alone require generational wealth or at least a very successful career as a playwright/baker/whatever Meryl Streep was in “It’s Complicated.” (Side note: I’ve watched that movie twelve times and still can’t remember her character’s profession beyond “makes chocolate croissants” and “has great kitchen lighting.”)
But there’s also something genuinely empowering about clothes that make you feel like the main character in your own life. When I’m wearing my Nancy Meyers outfit, I make more eye contact. I speak more confidently in meetings. I order complicated coffee drinks without apologizing. I behave like someone who deserves to take up space, who has interesting things to say, who might reasonably expect to find love in her 50s with a charming man who’s worked through his issues in therapy.
The best part? This outfit formula is surprisingly accessible. You don’t need wealth to pull it off – just an eye for proportions and a willingness to haunt thrift stores for the perfect oversized button-down. The pieces are classics that never really go out of style. And they work on literally 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 actually a rolling cart from IKEA that sometimes gets stuck on the uneven floor of my apartment. But when I’m wearing my Nancy Meyers outfit, bustling around my tiny kitchen making a dinner that’s way too elaborate for a Tuesday night, I feel like I’m just one meet-cute away from my third-act happiness. And sometimes, especially in this city, that feeling is worth more than all the coastal real estate in the world.