jeudi, mai 28, 2009
I've been wearing 'grown up clothes' for almost a year now, and it's almost stopped feeling like playing dress-up.
Confirmation came last week when a St. Laurent-clad lawyer complimented an outfit (black heels, black blouse*, pearls at throat and ears) anchored with this skirt.
It's hard being a perfectionist, and though I've let go of most of my AR tendencies** I'm a stubborn shopper. Schooled by my sewer-mother, (who in turn was schooled by her seamstress mother) my picky-ness and taste often exceeds my time and means. If the fit isn't perfect, if it's not lined, if if cuts my arms off at the widest point... no matter how much on sale or how cute or how much I just need one more dress... I won't buy it.
Actually, that's not entirely true. I do buy stuff. All the time. But then I try it all on at home and grimace and return it the next day.
So I find myself spending a lot of time shopping, with little to show for it. But I'm learning about the age-old thrill of the chase; stalking the shops of Queen West and the Eaton Centre, waiting to pounce on a swath of fabric that will add a soupcon of maturity to my dead-last finish in the rat race.
*evidence that I am nowhere near full maturity: the word blouse sends me into paroxysms of giggles.
**any family member reading that clause just choked on their coffee.