Fashion Sense, the First

I’ve never thought of myself as fashionable. I have an inner dork that manages to come out when I’m:

1. shopping for clothes
2. getting dressed
3. going outside my home

This leads to many situations where my outfit doesn’t fit in. An example: on Saturday, after playing an orchestra concert, I went to a local college bar in my concert clothes. Not a lot of people were wearing floor-length black, except some guy who either also just finished a classical music concert or who just got off of work at an Italian restaurant. If only I had concert black ass pants and tummy shirts.

While walking today in my nice top, nice skirt, tennis shoes and accidentally mis-matched green/yellow socks, I realized that my inner dork is probably a 6-year-old version of me...that happens to be holding my fashionable side hostage. I recently discovered the beauty of buying solid color clothing (I had a bad phase of mis-matched prints, sigh..). I then promptly went through a phase that was politely described as "dressing like a kidergarten teacher." It looked like a finger-painting template gone awry with purple shirts, red shoes, blue pants and screaming pink socks.

My inner 6-year-old is not fooled by tan, brown, black or white either. I will start off all right and then end up, somehow, with bright rainbow striped tights under my boring gray skirt. I don’t know where these clothes keep coming from. I have a lovely orangey-red poncho that abruptly lands on my shoulders only when I’m wearing a white shirt with tan pants. I have a hideously ugly necklace that can’t be found unless I’m wearing a pastel blue top with nice black pants.

I have a pair of sparkly star sunglasses that appeared in my life a few years ago. They land on my face with some mysterious regularity. I’m still trying to find the trigger, but no patterns have emerged just yet. And now, I need to go to rehearsal with one mildly green sock and one mostly yellow sock in my red shoes. I can’t believe they matched this morning...

An Erinku:
burial in post-its
little, sticky
papercuts
waiting to happen