I kind of look like the Great and Terrible Oz in this pic, yeah?
I like to think I'm a confident woman. I like to think it all the time. A woman so filled with self-worth she doesn't worry about how other people see her. I'm not quite there yet, but getting closer. My goal in 2013 is to become so much that way I could fly right off the mountain tops on a jet stream of self-assurance. Not only would that save all kinds of time in my life—time spent standing in front of a mirror wondering whether my style is cutting edge or Cut-Up-the-Credit-Cards—but it will also free up my brain and schedule to look around and see if there are people out there that I can do a thing or two for.
But, like I said, I'm not quite there yet.
That became clear to me yesterday. My day started late. I'd been to the gym and then gotten slammed with a bit of Hashimoto/Adrenal stuff which put me out of commission for a few hours. So once I finally pulled my brain out of its swirling vortex, I decided to dress up funky and go out into the world. Hit a few stores. Make some Christmas returns. Smile at folks. That sort of thing
So I went to my closet and whipped trendy-apparel-laden hangers around like dangerous snow, looking for just the right pieces. (See, that's a sign that I'm über haute couture: I call my shirts and pants "pieces.") After awhile I got sort of hypnotized, watching all those clothes zing by. That must have been what happened. Because there's no other explanation for what I put on and walked out of my house wearing.
EXCEPT, OH YEAH, THERE WAS MY COLLEGE KID WHO TOLD ME I LOOKED FINE IN THAT OUTFIT AND SURE IT WOULD BE OKAY FOR ME TO GO TO THE MALL LIKE THAT. NO PROBLEM.
I'll be rewriting my will as soon as I'm done with this post.
Long and short of it: I got to the mall, made a few returns, traipsed in and out of fashionable stores, even tried a few things on—In front of a 3-way mirror. Without, apparently, noticing what I'd walked in there wearing—then saw an immaculate store proprietor standing there casing the joint for prospective customers. He gave me a once-over. Then a twice-over. Lingering, oddly, at my feet. His eyes stayed glued to them as I walked clear down the hall. And he wasn't the only one either. My habillements were spraining eyeballs left and right.
Huh. What d'you suppose was up with that. Maybe I should look at my reflection in a passing store window to see–ack! Ack! What. the heck. am I wearing?
Boyfriend jeans. Baggy. Belted. Slightly short and fashionably rolled up. To expose the SCARY BOOTS MY CHILD—THE ONE I GOT A QUINTILLION STRETCH-MARKS GIVING BIRTH TO—TOLD ME WERE FINE. Boots which bear the name "Western Work Boots for Women," and which you buy at places that also sell milk, produce, jerky, and tac. Because you're cool like that. Never mind that your ankles are so skinny they look like they belong on a flamingo. Or that the boots lace to them like a freaking corset. Or that the effect of them hanging from the bottoms of your rolled up baggy hayseed jeans is that you are Tweety-Bird standing on the ends of two canoes. Forget that you've been clomping through a fashionable mall all afternoon dressed. like. that. Ack-ity ack.
Well, I cared. I cared too much. And frankly, I'm too old for that. I should have worn my outsized banana-boat-work-boots with the full confidence of a woman of a certain age. Next year I won't care. I'm sure I'll be so confident I'll commemorate the event by digging out and donning the very same boots with the very same pants that nearly killed me this year. Assuming I haven't burned them.
Today? The boots are going to the back of the closet. And my kid's days as my fashion consultant are over.
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