I recently realized that it might send a mixed message to constantly be wearing heavy sweaters and peasant boots and long floral skirts while walking around town and clutching a book about Mormonism.
I've been in serious need of a pajama intervention for days now, since I'm borderlining on being an ankle-sweatpants-in-public kind of lost cause. Three days in a row last week I left the house thinking I looked put together. Pretty! Nice! Like one of those Lower East Side girls who put on a shapeless bag of black material and look glamorous! And then once I arrived to a show or a party or a dinner, saw a friend wearing stilettos or a pack of rabid single girls in full-on "I picked this out five hours ago" college-style going-out tops and groan, apologize for my rags and wonder where I went wrong.
I never intended to spend fall dressing like the hippest orthodox on the block (which, if that was my goal, frankly, I'd be killing it), but I can't seem to bring myself to push the sweater with the arms falling off (not a joke) to the back of the closet, or at least out of Saturday night outfit options. Guess you can take the girl out of the schmate, but you can't take the schmate-lover out of the girl.