I used to know how to dress myself. It all stemmed from an innate love of fashion that peaked in college and dwindled post-graduation. For six months I wore a khaki safari costume (yes, I’m blaming Disney World), which was nice for those indecisive mornings where you can’t put together a cohesive outfit for your life, or when you rip your tights, or when you’re feeling lazy. Who, me? 

But I used to love clothes at one point in time. Honest, I did. I loved writing about clothes and even went to Boston Fashion Week. I have sketch books full of designs dating ten years back.

This hit me because I’m going to a wedding at Martha’s Vineyard in three weeks and finally had a reason to shop. The bride told me the dress code is “casually elegant”, or maybe it was “elegantly casual”, so naturally I had no idea what to look for.

Now, I’m only telling you this because I found my dream dress today, which made me want to kick my heels in the air and skip home through the waves of Red Sox fans, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Last weekend I wasted countless hours mulling over less attractive options and brooding about my fruitless efforts when I could have been reading Potter for the umpteenth time, or learning how to cook something (you know, from scratch), or doing anything else for that matter.

But today I found it, my tulip-skirted, cap-sleeved, shimmery, floral frock:

And now I can carry on.

 

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