There I was, floating down Walnut Street in Center City, Philadelphia. The throngs of shoppers seemed to part in my path, and stop and stare in my wake.
It was one of those days that the planets seem to align in my fashion galaxy. The top was Chloe and the jeans, Miss Sixty. The shoes were Dior and the bag, Balenciaga. The gold hoops were Argento Vivo, and the sunglasses, Gucci. I was feeling fierce and Rittenhouse was my runway.
I felt in control. I tasted personal satisfaction. And I paused for a moment, as I smelled…I smelled….what was that? A bit sour…a bit repulsive…
J.Lo’s newest fragrance? No…
It was vomit.
I awoke with a start with the realization that (1) I had been dreaming, and (2)the mystery spit up I was unable to find earlier in the day had been found….on my pillow.
As I stumbled out of my bed, my groggy eyes tried to focus on the contents of my closet. Each morning I stared at a collection of apparel that was comprised of pieces that were either dated, ill fitting, or simply a terrible error in judgment. And each morning, I stare at these clothes hoping to discover that perfect sweater I forgot I had, which might catapult me back to the woman I was when I had time to think about style, instead of spit up.
What has happened? Am I starting to (gasp) let myself go?
So, I have decided to fight the fug. For the new spring season, I am going to make a conscious effort to dress better. This is not about high end clothes, just clothes that are current, that compliment my life post-partum, and that are ideally free of any expectorants.
As for this particular segment on the blog…I’ll be sharing my findings and my frustrations and, with hope, feeling fabulous by summer.
Special thanks to Shirley Magilton Photography for providing the image above and her encouragement. Though her site is under construction at present time, feel free to contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org Her work is timeless and, thanks to her talent, my home is a museum of my children.