I harbor a genuine admiration for a beautiful expression of style, an appreciative recognition of an artistically authentic statement of personality in the fabric of individual fashion. I admire other women’s ability to infuse self with eclectic articles of clothing that underscore a quieter confidence or curious expression of creativity. For some the physical becomes an extension of something intangible, an outward representation of an internal awareness.
Lately I have been struggling to piece together a wardrobe. The act itself feels almost ridiculous in its self-importance. However, the material value of the endeavor is far less significant than the personal cost of undressing old insecurities.
It is a dirty secret I carry beneath the carefully contrived and often uncomfortable efforts at dressing, the layers of unkindness for the body I live in. I hide behind threadbare t-shirts and unassuming forms that belie a hyper sensitivity with a false air of detachment. Other times I…
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