Recently, I attended a big, annual party: hundreds of people, great food and drink.
Before the party, I played my favorite game: fashion roulette. I keep trying on outfit after outfit after outfit until whoever is driving me to whatever arrives. Whatever I am wearing when they get here is what I wear. It’s the only way I can pick these days.
I used to have a way smaller number of choices. Now, I am never certain what will fit on any given day. I am not 100% into my 4s. Many of them fit — some more snuggly than others.
At a party filled with people who have known me for a decade or so, I felt like the queen. Everyone was excited to see me. I got a lot of “WOW, you look amazing!” along with comments about how skinny I am.
Granted, I wore a fab outfit. I mean, this is a killer. Short skirt (for me — it’s still only an inch or two about the knee); tights, high heels, fitted jacket.
When I walk through a ballroom and I feel this good, it permeates everything. I am very aware of “owning the joint” like the barman mentioned a couple of weeks ago. I exude confidence. I’d like to think it’s a combination of things — I know I look like myself again, nearly my best me; I am recovered from the break-up; things are turning around in my business (I still have no money, but I am moving in the right direction).
Although I hate to be this vain, a lot of my increase in confidence directly relates to my appearance. I know it shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong. I know it should be different. It’s not. I feel great because I look better.
Also: JF asked me the question everyone asks me when they see me at dinner: “are you ever going to eat bread again?” The answer: um, no. I mean, I may have a baguette in Paris or brioche or challah or something at some point. But bread just to eat bread? No.