Fabu Fashion Thursday (aka Quick Bathroom Selfies)

Because I thought today was Thursday, I decided to use my brain freeze (seriously, I believed it was Friday with all my heart) to my blogging advantage. New feature: every Thursday, I’ll post pics of what I’m wearing. Viva brain freeze fashion! I do it for you, don’t you know?

Below are a few pics of my OOTD; details are further below:

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Dress is a cute sweater dress I found at Dress Barn. DB tends to sometimes skew to the more mature lady, but with diligence, you can find snazzy, age-appropriate garb.

Light gray sweater is from Ross. Speaking of diligence, it takes a lot of that to find neat things at Ross. But you can do it, if you try.

Red tights are from Wal-Mart. It’s my least favorite place in the world, Wally World, but those tights had me seeing red, in a good way.

Silver necklace from Target, I think.

And your standard black, I’ve-owned-them-for-so-long winter boots.

Fancy, huh? What are you wearing today?

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she who has bloomed.

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I used to bristle when folks called me a late bloomer. (Those folks being my bestie, whom you’ll hear about often, and my mama, whom you’ll hear about often.) There was something condescending and juvenile about it, as if I hadn’t grown up yet.

The online definition I found for late bloomer is “a person whose talents or capabilities are not visible to others until later than usual.” I like that, don’t you? No juvenility or stunted growth to be found.

Nevertheless, my blooming was a bit different. It wasn’t that my talents and capabilities became visible to others at a later time. I can honestly say that the important people in my life have always been pretty communicative about things like writing and what I can do. Major cheerleader action, thankfully. But those talents and capabilities were never visible to me.

I didn’t buy it. I was waiting for the Carrie-like bucket of yuckness to fall when people gave me compliments. I thought my writing was sub-par, that my strengths weren’t strengths at all, another blip on the screen of life. Lack of self-esteem was certainly the culprit here, combined with a long-held belief that those cheerleaders had something sinister up their sleeves. (It’s usually the forcible harvesting of my kidneys. Don’t ask. I watch too much Law and Order.)

Things change, though.

Women who are not yet 30 and reading this, embrace what is coming. I bloomed at 30. Something happened that day. I woke up and began to fall in love with myself, my writing, my mind, my capabilities, my body. There’s always, always room for improvement. I accept that. But I blooooomed. And five years later, the process continues.

“You’re a late bloomer.” Yep, sure am.