dressed down
September 20, 2016 § 5 Comments
In cultivating a new wardrobe for work, I had time enough to play at dressing up; fitting room productions of curious costumes for uncertain scenarios.
I slipped into elegant pencil skirts and feminine dresses, sharp slacks and pristine blouses. High heels and kitten pumps, practical penny loafers and functional ballet flats. The combinations were endlessly entertaining and mildly exhausting.
I wondered briefly at who I might have been had I ordered my choices differently; turning appreciatively to gauge the stranger that seemed at once both familiar and foreign. Store clerks acknowledged these alternate versions kindly, but I could only weather the work of each effort with disjointed appreciation.
I felt less myself without my feet braced barefoot for balance or fabrics gentle enough to accommodate my tendency to curl into a ball. Beautiful pieces were lost to the hair I more often let fall and the face I prefer washed clean.
For all the years I might have wanted to feel beautiful or sexy, I am most myself undone; happier outside the attention of dress and lost more peacefully to my thoughts.
I wonder if we ever outgrow the art of playing at self. Perhaps I have failed colorfully at growing up by too casually dressing down.
less of more
September 5, 2016 § 9 Comments
This past year I had the luxury of dressing in humble, leftover staples of comfort. Long walks with our dog and errands afforded me an unexceptional excuse to recycle my wardrobe in varying combinations of unintelligible shades of largely, shapeless neutrals.
In moving I intentionally packed light; making a conscious commitment to a minimalist mindset that inspired an unintentional exercise in creating a capsule wardrobe. Most days I could have dressed safely in the dark and there was a certain pleasure in the elegance of less.
As I prepare to work outside our home I recognize there is a need for a more structured series of basic interchangeable pieces. I’ve no desire to shop trends or splurge on seasonal whims any more than I want to invest in poorly tailored objects that might fall apart with moderate wear.
Yesterday I spent hours drifting between storefronts, exploring the cuts and colors of borrowed style in search of a familiar self. Tempted to shape myself into an image of something predesigned to escape the exercise in choice, I was slow to recognize the work of self-expression.
I marveled over how quickly we can conform an idea of self by the offerings of cleverly marketed offerings. The fleeting confidence of finding my size in someone else’s image doesn’t allow me to move authentically through my days.
I want my clothes to continue to serve as a background for my thoughts and actions, an understated expression that requires less burden of extravagance. To move seamlessly among my threads.
beauty marks
June 23, 2016 § 4 Comments
Before our move I tried on each piece of clothing in my closet determined to keep only those items that fit, were in good shape, and made me feel beautiful. It was an indulgent experiment, a consciously minimalist exercise in less that lightened the work of moving while creating a need to replace a few necessary wardrobe staples.
For the past year I have happily managed without many new purchases, until now. As I filled the gaps in my children’s summer wardrobe to accommodate winter’s growth, it became obvious that my own choices were sincerely lacking. I spent an afternoon drifting between stores, struggling to find clothing that was neither matronly or juvenile, only to find myself confronted with an unhappy reflection of unflattering choices.
This was what drove me to seek direction with an outsourced service based on tidy measurements and instinctive preferences. Impersonal details that might communicate greater possibility to someone uninhibited by my skewed sense of self how I might look in something unfamiliar.
Today was my third attempt in as many shipments. The first two forays into this new experience were frustratingly disappointing. Sizes were a little off, but fabrics were hopefully delightful. Prices were reasonable and styles were novel to my daily uniform of denim and cotton. Colors and design elements began a new conversation in form and function, need and pleasure.
There have been a couple close misses, tops or dresses I wanted to keep but could not rationalize for poor fit or inconvenient practicalities, but today’s dress was a beautiful disaster. I fell in love with the lightness of the fabric as it spooled through my fingers. A whimsical design that felt immediately romantic for the ribbons of flowers and birds that chased the length of a skirt with slits cut discreetly along each leg.
For a moment, I wanted to keep the object that lulled me nearer a fantasy so I smiled as I twirled for my daughter. It was as I was smiling that she noted my wrinkles then quickly qualified them as something good; a sign that I smile so much.
In that simple acknowledgment I felt more beautiful than the elegant pattern I knew I would fold neatly to return; the dress that I wouldn’t wear for the ill-fitting design of a top too small and a style more impulsive than timeless.
I’m keeping, instead, the lines on my face and a new smile for a stolen moment of dress-up. A snapshot to hold safe this memory for another time. Grateful for the keepsakes of old smiles in telltale laugh lines.
to my daughter
March 10, 2016 § 2 Comments
On your eleventh birthday, you proudly proclaimed yourself eleventeen. Younger sister to a teenage brother, it sometimes seems you were born assuming an equality of age while simultaneously performing a playful demonstration of the very youth you feigned ignorance of experience.
I can remember elementary days, picking up your brother from school while you chased ahead of me in full costume. Parading after the older children with a single-minded purpose of falling into line and assuming a place in their day.
You were fearlessly bold before you were old enough to understand unkindness, to feel different or doubtful. Over the past few years you’ve sometimes struggled to be seen authentically amid the familiarity of sameness.
This year, as you introduced yourself to strangers and set about the task of self in a new setting, I marveled at confident expressions that hinted at your playful nature and creative spirit. When others might have sought the invisibility of a crowd, you moved comfortably in your costume of self.
Bulky orange headphones, outdated for their size, draped at your neck or a borrowed baseball cap worn backwards; torn jeans and weathered boots; sentimental accessories and clothes that are a hodgepodge of comfort and convenience. Just this side of pretty with a carefully casual disinterest in compliments.
I have a sneaking suspicion you will soon outgrow this phase in much the same way you ceased to chase neighborhood sidewalks in stained princess gowns brandishing your brother’s forgotten sword in trade for an astronaut costume with pearls.
Even as I cautiously redirect your attention from a new question of feathers and hair color, I’m secretly smitten by the riddle of style that has become reassuringly familiar for its predictable chaos that is your own.
Love, Mom
self & style
September 16, 2015 § 2 Comments
I fall in and out of love with borrowed ideas. Blessed with friends who are naturally brazen in their creative exploration of self, I tend to get lost in second-hand inspiration born of their fearlessness. I envy them their everyday bravery from the security of my neutral color palettes.
When we moved, I promised myself to challenge my preferences and play with unfamiliar accents. I pledged to make mistakes and take chances with color. A creature of habit, I found myself turning to online inspiration for a color by numbers approach to shading in the blank spaces of my home.
Each picture was a study in a stubborn resistance to change. Mismatched table sets seemed to invite the assumption of wear with trendy antiquing techniques, neutrals in contrast over color. Even my virtual pin board guarded old favorites with passive aggressive attempts at change; someone else’s other in shades of self.
Not unlike days of dog-eared catalogues from high-end home goods companies, I was browsing an ideal over individualism. I wanted the sense of casual elegance without the challenge of struggling with the risk of error, but I was already circling a larger truth.
Then my husband and I began shopping for a table. As we sounded out likes and dislikes, sifted through ideas and shared our needs, we began piecing together an ideal that was completely unexpected and entirely familiar.
We drifted from table to table, chair to chair, like fairy tales guest testing unfamiliar pieces of furniture for a sense of comfort that hinted at self, I began leaning towards a few surprising certainties that inform a sense of style.
Solid wood and clean lines, feminine curves and textures; I want pieces that will weather our daily lives with strength and grace. A table that my children will play on as naturally as they might unpack unused pieces of china for a special occasion. I want something that will hold the lines of stories in every scratch and dent for years to come.
Preferences that I previously disregarded as safe are no less beautiful for the joy or comfort they provide. I may never be trendy or bold, but I’m finding a different kind of wonderful as I learn that sometimes the bravest choice is recognizing self in personal style.
image & identity
October 4, 2012 § 2 Comments
This morning I struggled to piece together something resembling adult attire. Wanting to present a coordinated image at a school meeting I cast aside oversized sweaters and everyday t-shirts, ballet flats and flip flops, jeans and yoga pants in search of something that might suggest a contemporary mom-on-the-go. I wanted to exude confidence, but my closet suggested I am lost in shades of self doubt; earth tones and unassuming everyday essentials dramatically insignificant.
Nestled in a corner of my closet are sweater dresses and pencil skirts in want of feminine footwear. A sprinkling of accidental accessories slumber forgotten and unworn – an indication of lost intentions. Navigating my fragmented clothing and accessories for something stylish I resigned myself to a pair of hip hugging dark washed jeans, a crisp cotton t-shirt, and ballet flats accessorized with only my wedding band, watch, and unpretentious diamond studs. With my straight hair swept into a ponytail I felt like a teenager long expired, curious to be made into a woman.
I admire women who seem born into a sense of style, their clothes seemingly conforming to their personality. I want to wake up a little bit Audrey, playfully tailored and effortlessly elegant, but unassuming and authentically me.
the gourd next door
February 22, 2012 § 2 Comments
I feel a little like a pumpkin wishing for a magic spell to transform me into something phenomenal. Change as a vehicle to confidence. I am lacking inspiration.
Gone are the days of spontaneous self-indulgent shopping. Shoes no longer spin daydreams of stepping out past the stroke of midnight. I no longer feel confident in clothes that hug stray curves. Hiding pieces of myself behind clothes, I feel lost in a nondescript cloak of invisibility. Worse, sometimes I fear my invisibility is quite visible.
Lately I catch myself wishing for something else, a quick pulled together style that reflects the woman I am on the inside. Looking at basic pieces in my closet or window shopping on sunny days, I am struck with the realization that I do not remember where to begin. I try to begin with basics, but get lost in simple addition. Combining pieces result in mismeasured mixtures of shape and style.
Is there a chic cheat sheet for creating a timeless, elegant image? Something mature and spirited, playful and appropriate. A look that balances my role as mother and partner.
I have exercised the option of personal shopper to the unfortunate exhaustion of the patient young woman who endeavored to play fairy godmother. Her magic cast an image that fell short of Me. Apologetic and uninspired I retreated to familiar creature comforts. As my trusty wardrobe of denim and t-shirts softens with signs of wear, I am ready for something new and hopelessly lost among the racks and shelves of options.
This gourd wants to feel like a girl, feminine and confident in her own skin.
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