Fashion

Ironically, here in fashion-forward London, I miss fashion. It's all thousands of miles away, tucked into a closet in the frozen Northwoods of Wisconsin. Well, mine is at least. The Londoners seem to be doing pretty well for themselves. All around me are beautiful people, or at least people made more beautiful by the clothes they put on. I see swirls of color and pattern, mixtures of textures and fabrics and jewellery everywhere: on the streets, in the cafes, in museums, in the tube, everywhere! Women wear bright lipstick and improbably large earrings and mile-high heels to the grocery store. TO THE GROCERY STORE!

I've never been particularly concerned with being strictly fashion-forward, as long as I avoid being fashion-backward, or worse, fashion-inside-out. Lucky for me, I have a sister who loves to dress me like a human doll. She likes nothing better than to go shopping for me. No, I don't mean shopping with me. I mean, shopping FOR me. Sure, I like going myself, but she gets such joy from choosing my wardrobe, and I hate to deprive her of so simple a pleasure. I always tell her I have veto power. Ha. If she wants me to wear something, I wear it.

At home I love dressing up. My favorite night of the week is the night I go formal ballroom dancing. There is no better feeling than wearing a particularly swirly skirt while waltzing, or better yet, Viennese waltzing with a skilled partner. Dancing made me add skirts to my wardrobe. I discovered just how amazing they are. Men don't know what they're missing. I have skirts in every color and every pattern and every material imaginable. I love bold prints, but sometimes a classic black satin is just what I need to execute a truly wonderful tango. It's strange how much clothing changes an experience. When I wear the black satin skirt, I don't feel shy or embarrassed; I can become Roxanne.

I don't know what I was thinking when I came to London. I brought with me only one smallish suitcase for my entire semester-long life. I brought only one pair of boots and two pairs of walking shoes and one pair of going-out heels. I brought 4 pairs of jeans and one skirt. I have 1 nice dress, 2 tshirts, 3 tanks, 3 sweaters and 5 long-sleeved ts. What was wrong with me?! I brought nothing nice to wear! I thought I could get by with plain black tshirts and jeans. I didn't even bring any flats. Obviously I was suffering a bout of mental illness when I packed. It made sense at the time, but now I am stretching the limits of patience, trying to live without color or pattern or just nice clothes. At least I brought 40 days worth of undergarments and socks. Brilliant.

Slowly, I am filling out my pathetic closet. The mismatched hangers in my solitary cabinet are gradually being filled. One of these days I'll be able to go a week without cringing at my minuscule options. Hopefully that day will come before I have to pack it all up and cross the Atlantic.