As you may recall, I’m not too keen on how easily the fashion world makes us feel so poorly about ourselves. I remember buying clothes just because I saw the photographs of girls happily wearing them in advertisements. I recall purchasing things that weren’t really me because I thought that they would make me stylish, cool, or just an all-out better version of myself.
There is a new blue knit pillow on our bed.
It’s not really a new item in our house, per say. It used to be a sweater.
I wore this sweater the day Martin and I met. It wasn’t nearly so stretched out and saggy back then. “You should turn it into something,” Martin said when I tossed it into a pile of clothes that didn’t fit anymore. (Nostalgia is our middle name.)
Every time a friend asks what type of souvenir I get for myself in Germany, I always answer with far too much zeal, “Shoes!”
They’ll kind of roll their eyes and turn to Martin, begging for a more stereotypical answer, something like chocolate or a new pair of Leiderhosen, I suppose.
Oh but of course they don’t get a run of the mill answer from him, either. Martin adds just as many explanation marks as he announces, “I bought us a phone made by Siemens!” or “I found this cool strand of LEDs!”