pretty bones

One of my favorite memories growing up has to be helping my mom organize her closet. She would ask me to come sit with her and tell her which clothes I liked and which ones were 'like, so last season'. I'd sit there, on the floor in her closet, and I remember she could tell just by the look on my face whether something was worth keeping or not. After we'd gone through each piece of clothing we'd go back and mix and match them all together, coming up with enough outfits for the next month. My favorite part was (and still is) how her closet smelled. My mom has the most wonderful smelling perfumes and lotions and her closet smelled just like them with a nickel sized dollop of her shampoo thrown in. 

I wish I had somebody to help me do that. Do you ever feel like you are trying to wear someone else's clothes? Do you know what I mean? Like your clothes are really meant for the person you wish you were, or simply even the person you used to be. 

I realize I have no idea what looks good on me. I have no idea what's in style this season. I can look through the pages of anthropologie or toast (the british version of anthro) and it all looks great, but when I actually go to the store and try something on it always disappoints. I'm trying something new in my closet, I can't remember where I read about it, but you turn all of your hangers backwards (I guess that assumes that all of your hangers were facing the same way to start with.. but I digress) Then when you wear one of the pieces of clothing you flip the hanger back around. That way you can actually see what you wear and what you just think you wear. It's actually pretty cool. I started it at new years. I know, I'm pretty dorky like that.

Anyway. Here's my theory on the store Anthropologie:

(side note: I think it used to be way better before Gap bought it.)

Once upon a time, this past Christmas season, I finally made it to the new Anthropologie store in a nearby town and I was so excited because it had been years since I had physically stepped foot in the store. At first glance everything was wonderful. There were sweaters with hand stitched details and skirts with appliques.  I saw pants that screamed "You will have a cute butt in me" and there was a general sense of happy embellishment about the place. 

Then I saw the tees and the tees grounded me. They ripped me right off my happy felted, chainstich embroidered cloud.

I did a double take. "They're how much?" Plain old t-shirts that must be expensive just because they have a nice tag in them. The prices were starting to haunt me...

"Look smaller, look smaller" I told myself, "Surely you'll find something you can afford".

There were tiny stuffed ornaments to the left and glittery garlands to the right.

Then, in one artificially lit moment it dawned on me that none of this stuff was truly handmade. Ok, sure it was handmade by someone sitting in a factory, but that person was chucking out hundreds of these things every day. Where's the originality? Where's the love?

And that's when the store suddenly became very depressing. I wouldn't be buying something special, I'd be buying some thing. 

I ventured back to the sale room (crazy, I know) and once safely tucked inside I heard the words that drove the final nail into my new wardrobe coffin. "I know, I really like it too, do you really think I should get it?" 'It' being a sweater. "You know I already have this one in blue and yellow..."

Aaaaaahhhhh! I left as quickly as I had come in. 

And so, on that fateful day, my love affair with the slightly askew yet still perfectly staged, vintage-esque store had come to an end. I'll be honest, I still flirt with the catalog from time to time but I don't think we'll ever meet in person again.

xo