minalisms

Today, I noticed another one of my shoes had a broken heel, making this the second pair in three months that must be fixed or thrown out.

“Great, now I have to go shoe shopping,” I complained.

Wait, what did I just say?

But it’s true. I couldn’t care less about shopping for new duds. I’m not the least bit intrigued about this season’s fall boots or want to stock up on fuzzy sweaters and wool skirts. I stopped caring about fashion about a year ago. That’s why I rotate through the same three work pants every week. On weekends, I stand inside my closet and stare; yet nothing inspires me, so I pull out something drab yet comfortable and conclude, “I don’t care. Who really cares? I don’t care!!”

This is depressing me.

I want my vanity back. I want back the part of me that didn’t mind the fuss of makeup and dress-up. Bring back the girl who invested in herself — With time and money and confidence.

There used to be a time when my eyes would light up at the sight of 4-inch-high polka-dot stilettos in size 7. Or I’d see a heather gray pencil skirt that hugged me just right. Back then, a gold-and-silver beaded clutch within a pile of thrift-store rubbish was a treasure find, and my pursuit for the most glamorous shade of red lipstick was a worthy challenge.

(You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?)

I still have a majority of those items, but now I look at them with disdain because they remind me of diminishing youth — one that I don’t forsee returning.

I glance at the dusty stilettos quizzically, not daring to put them on and risk tripping and breaking my pelvis. The pencil skirt — well, that’s gone, donated in a clothing swap with friends who evidently have the discipline to keep their cute waistlines. God only knows why I’ve kept the red lipstick, which looked pretentious even in my early twenties.

But the clutch — I will never let that go. Because it’s still exquisite, despite its beads somewhat dull after years of handling.