Dear me,
I need a drink.
And not the polite amount.
This week has been a fucking mess, so please...
just an hour of silence to do the iconic nothing.
A glass of wine.
A letter.
And absolutely no one asking me to be productive.
Sundays are becoming non-negotiable.
They're starting to feel like proof that I'm choosing myself.
One letter at a time.
—
Have you ever worn cashmere?
It looks expensive.
It feels expensive.
And it is fucking expensive.
Midweek deliveries are my favourite.
A deliberate little push towards the weekend.
An excuse to go somewhere just to wear the thing you convinced yourself might change your life.
This one made Wednesday smell like luxury.
The box sat on my bed for a minute.
It deserved a little respect.
The old me would've ripped it open before the courier reached his van.
1Possibly with sticky ice cream hands.
An item no longer welcome in my home.
This time...
I slowed down.
—
There it was.
A black slim cashmere sweater.
Simple.
Elegant.
Quiet.
Exactly the kind of woman who had it on when I bought it.
Then I caught myself thinking...
Did I actually buy the sweater?
Or did I buy her?
Not the woman exactly.
The version of her.
Hair somehow behaving.
Life somehow behaving.
Coffee somehow always hot.
Long legs.
Perfect posture.
Shoulders back.
Eye contact unbearable for the weak.
Looking like she had life completely figured out.
Comfortable.
2Effortless.
Lies.
—
The next day was Christmas.
So naturally I stuffed myself with chocolates.
Wine.
And those ridiculous happy-ending films I pretend to hate but secretly need once a year.
The day after...
I returned the cashmere.
I finally realised...
I wasn't buying cashmere.
I was buying certainty.
I thought if I dressed like women who knew exactly who they were...
maybe I wouldn't have to spend the time becoming one.
Looking back...
my wardrobe has belonged to a lot of women.
The minimalist.
The boss.
The gym girl.
The mysterious one.
Every one of them suited me.
None of them fitted me.
Maybe I've spent years borrowing identities because I didn't have the patience to wait for my own.
Or...
maybe this whole time she was waiting for me to stop borrowing everyone else's.
3—
The funny thing is...
I put the sweater on before I returned it.
"Quiet luxury."
The latest online bullshit they found another way to sell us.
And for a second...
it fucking worked.
I stood in front of the mirror waiting for the transformation.
Nothing happened.
Still me.
Just...
a more expensive version.
And somehow that made me laugh.
Because I finally understood.
The cashmere wasn't the investment.
I was.
—
Dear me,
Maybe becoming isn't collecting twenty percent of this woman and thirty percent of another until your
wardrobe looks like a personality crisis.
Maybe it's realising you're worth more than a trend.
More than an advert.
More than a fantasy.
The mirror kept me for a minute longer.
This time...
4I wasn't looking at the woman from the advert.
I was looking at the woman who would eventually buy the cashmere...
without expecting it to change her.
And I think...
that's the woman waiting for me at the table an year from now.
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