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.  

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