A Pretty Ship

I’ve never been much of a fashion doll. As a kid, I wore plain, ill-fitting (too big) clothes, to avoid standing out. Secretly, I liked dresses, the color pink, etc., but during the 90’s, no one at school wore much of either. Jeans, corduroys, t-shirts, and sweatshirts felt very safe.

Some years later, I arrived in Denver with a few piercings, a shaved head, a wallet chain, and the opportunity to really switch things around. So I did, just a little. My new uniform: black mini-skirts, thrifted t-shirts, and Mary Jane shoes. Although I was dressing a bit more adventurously, it was mostly to gain attention from boys, not because there was pull and connection to the outfits I chose.

And then before I knew it, I was living in the suburbs and dressing too old for my age—in boring clothes (i.e., Eddie Bauer), muted colors, conservative cuts. Jeans and t-shirts were still big staples, and although I wanted to dress more fashionably, I always tried to avoid situations where someone would be compelled to comment on my clothes. I wanted clothes that made no statement at all. And once I was known for my boring clothes, I felt helpless to change.

In my late-20’s, I began to evolve just a bit … UO and the Gap (or so I should say, better choices from the Gap), and maybe even … um … PS every once in a while (they have clothes that fit small girls!). Basically, though, it was a hodge-podge of mall and catalog clothing. No coherence. No purpose.

Onward I stumbled, in uninspired outfits. Or rather, un-outfits.

Which brings me to the present—wherein I still walk this earth as a person with little fashion sense. (Is wherein used incorrectly there, John?)

Fashion presents a huge problem for me—always. There is one part of me that wants to toss all concern for fashion and appearance out the window (what a waste of time!), but if I hate my outfit, I usually hate the day. Perhaps this is why I always have a uniform of sorts. Pick something from a closet of the same stuff — and then go. (But what if the closet’s stuff is junk?)

Sadly, the result of a junky closet is feelings of nausea when I accidentally see my reflection in passing — or when I see some lady on the train or on the street, who looks so great.

It makes sense. Some people just get it. They know what to wear, how to mix patterns, how to make the most of what they have, how to be appropriately fantastic. Unfortnately, I’ve never been one to get it.

I wonder, though, if I put more effort into my clothes, perhaps I’d feel better about things in general. Instead of always screwing with my body, why not screw with my clothes!?

Which brings me to the images above: sweater coat and sweater dress. More my age, yes? And nicer than my 80’s elementary school teacher get-up, no?

Heal thy wardrobe; heal thy brain?

That was simple.

Three days ago, I wrote of Paris: “And now I’m trying to find a way to get back, but with my love.”

In five months from now, we will walk through another’s city’s (cities’) early spring.

We did not scheme hard.  John just tried something.  And it worked.

Have you tried Yes to Carrots?

If your answer is yes, you love it, don’t you?

If your answer is no, you should try it soon.

I know. I know. It’s a drugstore brand. But it is also paraben-free (aka very important), (mostly) natural, and affordable. It works really well, too. I’ve only used the lotion and the body butter, but I can say, as a person with both very sensitive and very dry skin, Yes to Carrots is a safe and delicious product. It smells tasty — and thus you, too, become tasty when you use the stuff.  But not in an offensive or ‘funny’ way.

Good luck.

May I tell you a little bit about Paris?

There are several things about my (first) trip to Paris for which I will always be grateful: easy access to convenience and luxury being first on the list.

I traveled as a representative of my company, and because the company treats its Board Members and Senior Management team very well, I was treated well, also.  Meaning — I flew Business Class, was met as I stepped off the plane by an agent of the hotel who escorted me past the customs line, who carried my bag, who delivered me quickly to a waiting car.

I was met at the entrance to The Four Seasons-George V by a porter who swiftly delivered my bag to my door, and by a representative who escorted me directly to my room … no check in, no lines, no hassle.

While in Paris, I slept and worked from beautiful rooms, ate the very best food the city had to offer, was within close proximity to all of the monuments I’ve longed, for so many years, to see.  Every evening, my linens were turned down, and a bottle of still water was placed bedside, right next to the framed photograph of Raquel Welch.  I ordered room service espresso in the mornings, and my pocketbook received little to no blows.

If I were to say that while in Paris, I was in my element, I would not, however, be speaking of the expensive meal tickets or the decadent desserts or the room that I’ll never be able to afford.  That is not my world.

But if I said that I was in my element, I would be trying to tell you how I was charmed by the French — their reservedness, their pause, their manner, their spirit.  I would be speaking of the beautiful language that inspired me to reach into my very distant past and pull forth a jumble of words I studied for five years, 14 years ago.  It would be about the architecture, the customs, the history, the ease of the city, and the calm I felt when walking the streets.

I did not see much, but I saw enough to know that I have never felt so drawn to a place.  I was happy.  I was full.  I ate croissants.  And macarons.  And sorbet.

If you had seen me there, you would have said I was somehow different.  I was missing some of my armour.

And now?

And now I’m trying to find a way to get back, but with my love.

Yes, I would like to stay forever.