Fashionista

Feb. 5, 1999

In college, I was a fashion diva. I devoured the magazines, scoped the malls on a weekly basis and spent my monthly stipend from the campus newspaper on shoes and shirts. It took me at least an hour to dress and primp each morning, and this was just when I was attending a lecture or lab.

When I met my husband, his fashion preferences revolved around chalk bags and mountain-climbing shoes. We now joke about how we even went on a second date after he "wowed" me with his duct-taped sneakers.

Throughout the years together, he’s gained more attire aptitude, while I’ve digressed. Maybe it’s due to our professions. He’s in sales, where appearance makes a huge first impression, while I’m a journalist, where lipstick applied within the lip lines marks you a fashion goddess.

I’m not saying I’ve turned into a slob or a dressing disaster. What I mean is that I’ve loosened up a bit. Comfort has become priority, as has money. It’s easy to spend the grocery cash on shoes, but then the week spent regretting the decision isn’t really worth it. I still laugh at how I used to dress for my first "real" job right after college: pantyhose, three-inch heels, suits, silk tops. Let’s just say that the last time I wore heels was to my own wedding, and the only suits hanging in my closet now are of the swim variety.

Recently, though, the old me came tearing through. I was rummaging in my closet, and I realized I’ve got nothing but wall-to-wall comfort clothes. God forbid I need to (gasp!) look professional at a moment’s notice.

So I saved, and I planned, and I dreamed. And I went on a shopping spree, taking full advantage of all those winter-clearance sales. Combining my new fashion sense and my desire for comfort, I found clothes that fit and are versatile, all on sale.

But no heels. The journalist in me forbids it.