I have a love for fashion that is akin to my love for all things Jane Austen. When I was little all that I wanted was to fit in; as I grew that desire changed 180 degrees. For about four years there my style consisted of striped knee-high socks, platform tennis shoes, ponchos, and neon rain boots. Oh, and I cannot tell you how proud I was of my arm full of rubber bracelets! By the grace of God I think that I have finally found a happy medium. I have a new pair of flat leather boots to replace my neon rubber ones. I won't pretend that I don't still wear those striped knee-highs, but only with boots, those boots, I promise. I have given up tennis shoes entirely, in favor of my uniform of black flats, flat boots, and the occasional platform heel. I do own one poncho, but it's camel colored wool, and my ubiquitous bracelets have been exchanged for 2-3 vintage charm necklaces surgically attached to my neck. I'm still learning though. Vintage is my downfall, and I will admit that I have worn some very ridiculous things just because I loved their musty smell. The excuse "it's vintage" has ceased to work with my mother, but that's probably a good thing. She is sometimes the only thing standing between me and social ostracism.
Modesty is honestly not something I struggle with. If I were skinnier, tanner, or looked to Snookie or Fergie as my fashion icons it would be a struggle. As I am of average weight, pale as humanly possible, and am still not even sure who Snookie is or what qualifies her to sell pistachios, modesty, or as Jane Austen would say, "propriety", is second nature to me. In fact, I am a serial layerer (it's a word). I get in trouble, from my father no less, for wearing more than 10 items of clothing. Yes, it's a sickness. Don't laugh.
Clothing to me though is more than a covering, it is a statement. I routinely ask myself what I would think of my clothing if I saw it on someone else, from behind, etc.. Every outfit that I ever wear in public has been heavily edited and subjected to many hours of contemplation. (not. even. kidding.) That may seem excessive, and, in fact, it is, but I love doing it. It's a gift and a curse, but mostly a gift. My lingering insecurities must have something to do with my unreasonably picky attitude toward clothes, but I like to tell myself that it's due more to some sort of eye for my own individual style that I've acquired, and my family is nice enough not to pop my bubble.
I really acquired my style through looking through my grandma's Oprah magazines and watching What not to Wear. That would explain why I love Anne Taylor, Anthropologie, and J. Crew immensely more than Delias, Buckle, or (the BANE of my existence) Pac Sun. I steer clear of Junior's sections at all costs. I admit that I am a clothes snob, but I'm pretty nice about it. At least I don't force my rules on other people...
This is what I'm wearing today:
Christmas let me be a bit lazy, so I was less anal about this. I'm usually allergic to plaid, but maybe the trend has rubbed off on me, because this is the second plaid top I've bought this year. (that's a record)
No comments:
Post a Comment