Don’t let the shirt fool you; this is no look for a Hawaiian vacation. Despite the turtleneck, it’s no winter look either. It’s part Magnum P. I., part Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, part millennial trendwatcher. I can’t wear it to work, and, to be honest, you won’t find me wearing it on the street. This assemblage of clothes is utterly frivolous.
Wait, that can’t be true. Otherwise, what am I, Champion of Reason, doing bangin’ out looks that will see neither daylight nor neon night?
Ok, so maybe it only presents as frivolous. I’m beginning to understand this ritual, the blog, my Instagram feed, is a dry run—a dress rehearsal for the real events I’ll find myself attending. This look, too, then must be a draft. It has some of the makings of a solid look that will hopefully evolve into something more sophisticated.
Ok, so maybe it only presents as frivolous. I’m beginning to understand this ritual, the blog, my Instagram feed, is a dry run—a dress rehearsal for the real events I’ll find myself attending. This look, too, then must be a draft. It has some of the makings of a solid look that will hopefully evolve into something more sophisticated.
The practice is good in itself—I really do need it. But while I’m dumping thoughts and images into my little pockets of the internet, these incubators of ideas, I’m also making an agreement with myself to become more like the person in the pictures—because she’s not exactly the Michelle behind the computer screen. She’s better.
When I punch “share”, I’m signing a contract to be a better me.
When I punch “share”, I’m signing a contract to be a better me.
Life is funny. I never would have guessed that playing dress-up would make me grow up.