09 Aug Haute mess.
I vaguely recall a time in my life when the word “run” was associated with other words like “beer,” “pot” and “Ben & Jerry’s.” Now my 10 pm emergency trips to the grocery store all about about diapers and wipes. And during one of my last mad diaper dashes, I spotted THIS:
This printed, plastic wipey clutch that I did not in any way need and had to have. Why? Because I remember being in the trenches on infant care and struggling to adapt my personal style to deprivations of sleep, showers and sanity. When you suddenly have a ration of fucks to give about the way you look, you find yourself picking up some pretty fabulous accessories that you can just slap on and suddenly seem like your fashionable self again when you squint hard enough.
So it made me think about the other things I had in my possession from this delicate period of my style story, my favorite of which was always the chewy jewelry. I literally squealed when I saw it for the first time and I still totally wear it today even though my son is way past teething. This is not my Moby, BTW. Couldn’t track down mine. (Big thanks to Carla for letting me borrow hers!) And never did wear it as a shirt although I did plan to if breastfeeding had worked out for me. I was going to be a militant, feminist, badass breastfeeder who would look people dead in the eye while I shoved my nipple into my baby’s mouth because it’s fucking magical look what I can do YOU LOOK AT IT BASK IN MY LIFEGIVING GLORY.
The long, billowy skirt was always a staple for me because it looked fancy with zero effort and had enough fabric for me to sit cross-legged on the floor of the children’s library during story time without flashing the other moms. And sunglasses as a headband, that is just the short-haired woman’s version of “mom bun.” Very handy for keeping the flyaways at bay.