Riding on the coat-tails of last weeks reflection, I’ve been paying closer attention to our choices, mostly my own. I have felt a newfound sense of femininity and girlness in me lately. But full spectrum – we are talkin’ from pink sequins to random outcries in my car and laughing 20 minutes later (some would call that BPD but, hey, perception is reality). Over the years clothing and dressing myself for the day has become more and more about how it makes me feel and what it means. Anyone that doesn’t see that your choice in clothing is a self-righteous act to say something to the world, I applaud you.
Not caring also has a voice.

This has little to do with what people think. It’s a message of how you feel and want to feel. I don’t care for the tag or the logo (naively, once did), although I do care if my clothes make me itch, and if they were made by children in a sweatshop, I’ll say that boldly.

I want the things that lay on my skin to look like they tell a story or they hold a million of them.
I want them to look like they’re lived in. I want my clothes and I to know each other on a first name basis, not, “jeans that have been hiding on a back rack hanger for 2 years untouched,” more like, “These are my Wednesdays.”

See, this isn’t just about clothes anymore, we haven’t had a deep relationship with our belongings for several years now. We don’t value what we have currently more than the potential new piece in our cart. Our things don’t have stories anymore because we never hold them long enough for that to be a possibility.

Remember your good luck tee? Or your favorite pajamas? How many memories live in those pieces.
First kisses, that time you snuck out of your parents house, your first college football game, your favorite trip, the day you met that person that changed everything. I miss our things having stories.

I love when I get complimented about something I’m wearing and I get to share something beyond the name of where I bought it, “I found this in Florence when some old lady came up to me and said,
“come te” or “like you“, in a consignment shop, I later learned she went by, ‘Lady Allegra, I now call myself Lady Allegra when I wear it’” or, “I coined this my lucky girl bag, and only good things have happened since, so you should get it too.”

The answer is no, we don’t get to take our things with us when we pass, for those wondering.
But as for me, for as long as I’m here, I want a life full of stories.

Happier you’re here,
Kenny