When I get home from work, I make HM stop what he’s doing and take my photo IMMEDIATELY. Then I rip off my work clothes and put on my loungewear, so that I can be comfy and cuddle my cats freely. Arrival time: 5:04 p.m. Pajammified by 5:15 p.m. guaranteed.
I think of layering pieces – like tanks, tees, and leggings – as “supplies,” and never feel guilty about buying them. Even when I should be saving my pennies.
I cannot walk in a heel taller than 3.5″. I cannot walk in spindly stilettos of any height.
I feel sexier in an amazing dress, fishnets, and heels than I do naked.
I am LONG overdue for a bra fitting. LONG.
Here in MN, I’ve got about three weeks in the fall and three weeks in the spring in which it is possible to wear mid-weight coats. The rest of the time, it’s too cold or too hot. And yet, I collect them like a maniac. Wool coats, trenches, leather jackets, little faux fur vests … my closet is bursting.
I’ve never had a facial. Or gotten my legs or eyebrows waxed. Or tanned.
Most of the photos on The Sartorialist just irk me, though I can’t articulate why.
As much as I love my perky little breasts, I do pop filets into my bra on occasion. Sometimes a girl just wants more boobage than is naturally available!
I’ve still never seen “Project Runway” or “America’s Next Top Model.” Still!
I love clothing and style and dressing and the art of constructing a gorgeous outfit … but I do, occasionally, daydream about being 85 years old and not caring and wearing the same six sweatsuits in constant rotation.
Care to confess any of your fashion quirks or foibles, kittens? No judgment here, just giggles. Promise.