Last night I went to a party with some really pretty people and I wanted to step things up a bit, outfit-wise, so I wore a short (for me) flowy blue dress with my knee-high boots, over tights and a merino. This constitutes stepping it up, for me. I even put on some lip gloss and attempted to subdue my hair into behaving in a more party-appropriate manner, such was my devotion to the cause. People were very friendly and complimentary towards me during the evening, which is always lovely and much appreciated, but somehow I still spent basically the whole night worried about how I looked: tugging at my dress, fiddling with my hair, pulling up my tights, all night long.
I wish I were going to make this entry like a Mighty Closet -style photo shoot, with me wearing various cute outfits doing various cute poses and making various cute faces. I want to feel as cute as Maggie always looks, because I seem to be in one of those things where nothing looks right, nothing feels right, nothing is right in terms of my physical presentation to the rest of the world. My jeans are too loose, my jeans are too tight. My boots feel funny. None of my layers of black wool–in which I swathe myself daily when I venture out into Wellington’s stupid, stupid, cold, stupid, long, stupid winter–match any of my other layers of black wool. My hair is ridiculous and my face is all broken out in a manner upon which I can no longer blame getting off the pill. Oh, girl. No pictures, please, no. No thank you. Not at the moment.
And you know, things are still pretty busy with me, with work and friends and everything else. I’m currently booking out my social calendar about two weeks in advance, and—I don’t know how—I am still involved, if only peripherally, in swine flu stuff. We have a new flatmate at our house, who is currently cooking us dinner to celebrate moving in: awesome! There’s a lot to do and a think about, lately, so can anyone tell me why all I can think about is, like, my clothes?
And maybe it’s a coincidence and maybe it’s not, but for the past six months or so I’ve been thinking more about …I don’t know. I am thinking a lot about, like, wearing patterned tights and knee-length skirts and putting on makeup. I don’t want to call it beauty, because, well, you know. It’s not the same thing, not at all, and I know that, but I can’t help thinking that the cure for my cuteness-related woes is probably completely external. I just need to learn to pluck my eyebrows, right? I just need to wear short dresses more often, right?
I know the solution isn’t, really, to get all new clothes (how would I know what to get?) or to color my hair (how would I know what to get?) or anything like that. I know that. I also know that it’s all about confidence, all about projecting an image and that when you feel good you look good and so on and so forth. I also know, I guess, that everyone goes through times of feeling less than adorable. I guess since I haven’t really been able to figure out what the correlations are, like why I feel awesome-looking and why I feel forgettable-looking, I can’t really change how I think about it. I don’t even know if it’s important, all this nonsense about presentation and projection and cute outfits and confidence, or if it matters, or if I should care.