Last week I had a bit of a sartorial epiphany (absolutely an exaggeration, but let’s run with it because it sounds fancier than ‘wardrobe realisation’). I’d spent the majority of week comparing myself to others. Be it people that had passed their theory test (because apparently, I still don’t have the knack like a 17 year old boy), bloggers with a more slick, polished style (read: people that I absolutely admire, but found it easier to compare myself to than seek inspiration from) and everyone else online in between- and in short, it got a bit tiring. I’d started to feel a little bit insecure with my ‘sense of style’ (pardon the phrase) and felt like sometimes it’d just be easier to blend in more, and quit dressing up as a milkmaid/eskimo/Anchorman tribute (cross as appropriate) and take things back a notch.
It took me near enough from Monday to Saturday (with the help of plenty of kind words from some special people) to give myself a mental slap and to snap out of it. Maybe it was Emma’s incredible post on having ‘tunnel vision’, the arrival of my silver boots of dreams (which, if Leandra, Chung, and Bowie can all don- then heck, I’ll have ’em) or the fact I realised I was being pretty ridiculous (PMT?)- but come the weekend I felt a whole lot more myself. I pulled out my most Veronica Corningstone get up, popped back the two individual black items I have into my wardrobe and carried on doing me. Because, as I think I’ve worked out, that’s what I do best. Cheesy post over. (At least it saved you from a whole post about silver boots, right?)