The weather has un-surprisingly shifted here in the city. At first it was just a few off days. Then the early and chilly mornings became frequent. The spine-chilling and magical New York nights with a slip dress came soon after. For a while, the weather plays this little game of back and forth. Mornings. Then nights. And during the day, the sun and warmth blasts so hard, you’re all but confused and wondering why you sent your children to school in leggings instead of shorts again. (The answer to that has been sweaters with shorts, if you’d like to know.)
But in that glorious in-between time, when seasonal colds and sun lay in aboundance, the denim that hangs in my closet and tucked in my drawer asks me to give it a run. It’s like an old ex, really. They feel good. But you know the dangers of putting them on again. In my case, that danger is the continuation of that gravitational pull to wear and rewear again and again. My answering to it with several new tops tucked in and out, tied up and down, and yes, maybe, even more denim.
This isn’t a fantastical approach. You’d think by this outfit, I was left uninspired. But it is actually quite the opposite. In its simplicity, with vintage slides, a vintage bag, big hoops, and bright red lips, I allowed this other version of me to look as old as she feels. I feel like a woman, quite simply. Even with bantu-knots and likely carrying a child’s bookbag. The urge for my own sense of obvious womanhood has been quite clear to me. At faulty times, it feels like it is left up to a refined look. And with that, it doesn’t diminish every other colorful and loud thing I wear. I just feel more. More of whatever this is. And you?
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