If I had to describe my personal style I would use words like "flowy" and "floral." Maybe a little "bohemian" (but the Target version rather than the Anthropologie/Free People version because I am both too old and too cheap for those).
But these are lies. My style is actually shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops. All the time. Maybe a very soft sweatshirt if it's cold.
(Sidebar: Who talks about their "style"? I suddenly feel very awkward like I take myself too seriously. I assure you, I do not.)
Anyway.
After 24 plus years of marriage, I've realized I have rules for my clothing because my husband so kindly points them out, sometimes while laughing at me. It's okay, I forgive him.
Rule #1, The Cardinal Rule, The Rule Above All Rules: I do not like clothes that touch me.
This includes things like elastic around the sleeves (unless it's very loose), shirts with collars and buttons that lay heavily upon my chest as if to suffocate me, shirts or pants that attempt to cut me in half when I sit down, socks that leave marks, etc.
I also cannot wear clothes that itch, scratch, are unsoft, or bunch up around my joints when I move. I really want to be a person who wears blazers, but if I wear one I can't concentrate because every time I bend my arm there is a mound of bunched fabric inside my elbow that makes me want to scream.
The very first thing I do when I get clothes is to remove every single tag. I used to get in trouble because I would cut holes in my clothes when removing the tags, but as an adult I have become skilled at using a seam ripper, so no more holes.
My mom must have loved me being her first daughter. I think I can directly identify the moment she gave up making me a cute little girly girl. It was first grade. She forced me to wear a stiff, itchy Holly Hobbie dress for school picture day, and I almost died. I'm still traumatized. It took me six years of fit-throwing, but I never again remember her making me wear something like that.
I mean, look at this little girl. Doesn't that dress just make you want to scratch all over? I'm pretty sure that crooked smile means "save me!" I think the fabric was something like 70s couch cushion material. It's a wonder I'm so well adjusted today.
As a job-having adult, the only reason I have clothes that are even close to nice is because of Stitch Fix. Every three months some clothes arrive in the mail, I try them on, and I almost always keep them. The folks over there have gotten good at sending me "flowy" clothes, and I have a profile completed that basically details my clothing phobias in as normal a way as possible. I mostly hate shopping (do you know how many tags are on clothes while they are in the store?!?!?), so this works for me.
On Friday I got a Stitch Fix and it included...wait for it...high waisted jeans.
I have long been an outspoken critic of high waisted jeans. I'm sure they look fine on other people, but they do not work on my body. However, I'm an open-minded person, and these jeans were so, so, so cute! I want to be cute! I also know that at my ripe old age of 47.95 years old I'm supposed to love high waisted jeans because they tuck in and smooth out the part of my belly that refuses to forget the 18 months when I grew children there.
So I thought positive thoughts and tried them on.
Y'all. It was not good.
My sweet husband, ever supportive, said "Those are nice." The look I gave him caused him to follow up with, "Are they touching you too much?" He knows me well. I tried to explain all of the problems with these incredibly cute high-waisted jeans, and I just do not think he understood me at all. I'm sure he was listening intently to the details of my assessment, but he looked almost disinterested! Can you believe it?
I really needed to make my point, so I sat down on the couch and pulled those jeans up as high as they would go, proving that high waisted jeans are basically a combo of peri-menopausal maternity pants and an unsupportive boob shelf when I sit down in them. Let's just say that was not attractive. It sure got his attention, though, because he finally agreed that those cute jeans were from the devil and I should never, never put them on again.
Luckily, my Stitch Fix also came with two flowy, floral tops. The high waisted jeans and adorable pink blazer, however, are headed straight for the return mail. It's like this person I've never met who is picking out all my clothes barely knows me at all.
If you need me, I'll be over here with my seam ripper making sure no tags remain in my two new flowy blouses.
Which is perfectly normal.
