I love clothes. I love looking at beautiful clothes, trying on clothes, and, most of all, I love wearing clothes. Which is a good thing, I think. Wearing clothes. Every day. But here’s the funny thing: when I stopped working fulltime five years ago in order to write from home, my wardrobe took a big hit. Suddenly, it didn’t make sense to buy several pairs of nice Theory pants every year or two. Blazers just hung around my closet, bored, talking to the Blahnik boots that were yawning on the floor. Overnight, I found that I had absolutely no need to go into stores like Ann Taylor and Banana Republic, my teaching-wardrobe superstores. I used to know the names of their pants, the mid-rise Martin, the higher-waisted Jackson, but now I could care less. I didn’t even wave to them when I walked by their windows. Pants? Who writes at home over their garage in wool/polyester/spandex blend pants? Who walks the dog in trousers and kitten heels, unless they are going off to a workplace right afterwards? Not that I have a dog. But if I did, I’d be walking that furball while wearing jeans or sweats.
My life’s daily rhythms had shifted into a quieter mode and now my wardrobe needed to chillax as well.
Although I was excited to have the excuse to shop for new items, I was concerned that it wouldn’t be as much fun to dress up to go nowhere as it was to go to work.
How could I hold on to a sense of style while looking appropriate for the occasion? And what if that occasion was serving pizza lunch at my children’s elementary school? Or having coffee with a friend in Greenwich? Continue reading here.
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