The selfie. I’m not typically one for them, to me it seems like an open call for judgement, especially considering you are the entire photo. With only an arm’s reach distance from camera to subject, there is little room for background. Now, I’m not saying that every person on the planet who takes a selfie is screaming “Look at me! Look at me!” (maybe they are?), but I’m just too self-conscious to comfortably take part.
Today, however, I let myself indulge in a selfie. I was outside, the sun was shining for what felt like the first time all day, waiting on the Elizabeef and Lucy, and had just changed shirts/my entire mood. I had gone to work in one top (a seemingly harmless berry and navy striped knit) that had managed to single-handedly put me in the worst mood ever. I doubted it from the moment I put it on – played it up with a long gold necklace, and even asked Pal one too many times if it really looked okay. By the time I got to work (and far away from my closet), it all went to hell. Somehow the fit had morphed entirely. How, in the span of an hour, did a shirt manage to shrink two inches up and expand two inches out? I was wearing a horizontally striped box, and it wasn’t pretty (and on a day when we have an after work function? the nerve!). So not pretty that it made me seriously consider slipping out during lunch to buy a new shirt, but I didn’t. Instead I wrangled in that crazy of mine and waited until I got home to pull a mid-day wardrobe change. And it was worth the wait. From horrid striped shirt to white sweater and scarf, I became a different person (this person I like a whole lot more).