Fashionista? Who Me?

As I sit at the kitchen table, keeping an attentive eye on the cubed potatoes frying in the black iron skillet on the stove, I'm glancing through the latest edition of a very popular glossy fashion magazine. 

The first quarter, if not more, of the magazine is mostly ads--sleek, glossy ads for designers whose names I cannot pronounce let alone afford. The models are aloof in that tall, gaunt gorgeous way of models. Here's the thing: in most of the heavily stylized ads, I'm not always certain what the designer is promoting. 



Is it the red leather coat? The shoes? The handbag? The jewelry? Something far more allusive than I can comprehend because I'm not fashionable? I can't even remember the last time someone commented on what I was wearing let alone complimented me on an outfit. A fashionista, I am not. 

As I flip through glossy ad page after page, I remember how I yearned to be sophisticated, sumptuously attired in rich designer labels, photographed in glamorous far off places--anywhere but the po-dunk town of Winfield where I grew up. 

The pages of fashion and beauty magazines offered a means to fantasize, to escape my painfully, socially awkward self. There were times when even I didn't want to be around myself. 

I've come to learn that I can't outrun myself, no matter how hard I try. I can't escape being me. Although I can come off as aloof, which stems from introversion and shyness, I'm not tall. I'm not gorgeous, although my husband and children think I'm pretty. Even when I'm not wearing makeup. (I know, right?) 

On a cold, snowy afternoon, you will more than likely find me reading heritage seed catalogs ("food porn" as a colleague of mine calls it) and chicken breed catalogs, daydreaming about living on a modest hobby farm. Exactly what I was running away from. 

My, how time changes your perspective. Comment below and tell me what's changed about your perspective.