When I first started this blog,
I used to wonder a lot about my personal style.
Truthfully- the fact that I couldn't pinpoint myself as one single sartorial genre or another plagued me persistently. (I'm fully aware that a firstworldproblems hashtag is in order here).
Even taking photos of others on the street was an incredibly stressful feat (and also, apparently, the beginning to an extremely uncool rap song).
Did I really like what they were wearing? Was it "my" style? What was "my" style? Did I even have a style? AM I EVEN REAL?!?!?
Then I took
Xanax a breath and was like:
Nobody's looking at you and judging the fact that one day you wear boyfriend jeans, and the next a mini skirt. Or a kilt made from a piece of fabric that you bought but never succeeded to sew. Nobody's analyzing your styling decisions and simultaneously questioning your sanity (fingers crossed).
And I'm pretty sure nobody's experiencing an identity crisis when I pick flats over heels.
Who isn't nobody, but isn't not nobody either.
Personal style is a strange beast. Like clouds, it's one of those things that's difficult to see from the inside, but extremely evident once you're mildly removed.
|skirt: homemade, turtleneck: Target, shoes: Jeffrey Campbell, handchain: Melissa Behrens, watch: La Mer|
Which is why I've stopped wondering (as much).
In hindsight, it won't be hard to see.
It also won't really matter.
I'll have been "me" the whole time. Just "me" at different stages of my stylistic (m)evolution.
skirt: Robert Rodriguez, turtleneck: A Wang, booties: See by Chloe, hand chain: Rebecca Minkoff, watch: La Mer