Tag: Fashion

Oh how the girl feels

One of my favourite bands ever is Franz Ferdinand. If you don’t know about them, I definitely recommend that you check them out – they are tip top groove troopers and pretty much my number one choice every time I feel the need for a mad, solo dance party.

I saw them live a couple of summers ago and these rocking Scotsmen put on a fab show, despite the pouring rain, slick stage, and a brutal opening band.

Anyway, there is a song of theirs that I love very much – it’s off of their third album and is called “No You Girls”. It’s a great tune, so definitely have a listen if you are interested:

The lines that always get me are near the end, when Alex (Kapranos, the band’s lead man) sings:

Sometimes I say stupid things
That I think
Well, I mean I
Sometimes I think the stupidest things
Because I never wonder
Oh how the girl feels
Oh how the girl feels

I feel as though these lyrics work for so many different situations (whether taken literally or not). I mean, who hasn’t been in the position where they have said something that (inadvertently) comes across as ignorant, because they haven’t taken the time to consider whether or not other parties involved may be offended, or come at the issues from a different point of view?

Not I, that’s for sure.

These kind of things happen all the time – rarely for malicious purposes, and hopefully the offending party can quickly rectify their faux pas.

Unfortunately, I feel as though the self-awareness required to do said rectifying is often lacking when it comes to the majority of these situations.

For instance, yesterday I felt very much like I was in fact the girl in those above lyrics – awash in a sea of inconsiderate, unaware, and uninformed comments, made by so, so many individuals who hadn’t given a moment’s thought to whether or not their words may 1.) be impolite or 2.) indicative of huge social problems existent the world over or 3.) infused in such casual misogyny that trying to explain why their comments are harmful would be pointless because a.) JEEZE ETHEL they weren’t meant that way, so how could I misconstrue them to such a degree? or b.) I should probably just lighten up and learn how to take a joke. You feminists have no sense of humour!!!

For the sake of full disclosure, I should let you know that This Is True. As someone who cares about the status of women, I am required by law to be a full-on laugh suck-hole, governed by nothing more than my intolerance of jokes and laughing.

(My hatred of all men of course, is second only to this.)

Le sigh.

You see, lovely readers, yesterday was International Women’s Day.

Which I’ve actually come to believe is also “International Day for Men to Ask Why There Isn’t an International Men’s Day?”

For the answer to this question, please consult the answer to, “So, like, why don’t we have White Entertainment Television?”

P.S. To all people (whether male or female) who ask these questions, you are part of the reason why International Women’s Day and Black Entertainment Television exist.

Also, I just want to put this out there (for hopefully the last time): the number of times “get back in the kitchen” or “make me a sandwich” have ever been funny is zero.

Zero times.

What’s that you say? It was all in jest?

Yeah, no. Answer’s still zero.

(And anyone who says otherwise should probably stay away from choral arrangements, or singing in front of dogs, because they are tone deaf.)

Right at this moment as I am typing these words I am doing ninja-style yoga breathing in an attempt to both regulate my heartbeat and bring my blood pressure down to a simmer (and not the roiling boil it is currently checking in at.)

I also LOVE to laugh, you stinking rats!!!

Breathe in…breathe out…

As some of you may have guessed, my mood today hasn’t exactly been one hundred percent cheerful.

I keep oscillating back and forth between happiness and rage. As soon as I start to feel cheerful, I slip-slide back to wrath so quickly that it makes my mind spin.

*In all seriousness folks, I am beginning to think that as I get older I am going to become so consumed by sadness over all the world’s ills (that as much as I try, I just cannot change) that I may die of a broken heart.

(And that’s probably the best case scenario! In reality, I’ll probably keel on the treadmill, have working myself up into the frenzy of all frenzies, wearing the shorts that always fall down when I run.)

And that’s serious class (with a K.)

So because I spent so much of today thinking of these things, and because the weather was absolute crap during my lunch hour, I walked over to the mall and proceeded to try on three outfits from H&M, all from the men’s clothing section, all based on what was advertised on the male mannequins.

And I have to say, I really, really liked them.

The crotch on the pants was a little low, but overall they were super comfortable.

I don’t know if this is because of my sour mood, or my pre-existing penchant for men’s fashion, but I had a hard time not buying every single thing I tried on.

I REALLY like these pants.

(I also thought about how the guy working in the dressing room didn’t bat an eyelash when I handed him the clothes I wanted to try on. I couldn’t (and still can’t) help wondering what reactions the exact opposite of that situation would garner – how would he have felt if I was a man, trying on women’s clothes?)

I think I will buy this sweater. But the pants were so tight I think I may have cut off some circulation.

I’m almost even interested in taking up a short sociological experiment: for two weeks I would dress solely in masculine clothing. After the time was up, I would switch, and wear only (what society deems) feminine clothing – along the way I would chronicle the different reactions I encountered to both modes of dress, and how they varied during the course of the trial. This is a topic that I’ve given much thought to for a long time, but am only now thinking of acting on it.

What do you think?

I’ll let the idea marinate a little longer, and let you know as my deliberation process progresses.

In the mean time, I am going to continue to do my yoga breathing.

And I am going to weigh the pros and cons of those burgundy pants.

And I am going to wish all the amazing, brilliant, and inspirational, women I know and love, a very happy, (belated) International Women’s Day.

I don’t know what I would do without you.

Love, actually

So I know it’s all the rage to slag-off love and put down romance (and proclaim Valentine’s day to be nothing more than a consumerist, wallet measuring contest, etc., etc.), and it is very well known amongst those who know me, and those who read this blog (or both) that I am pretty direct about what I abide, and what I don’t, but – I just can’t get behind this movement.

Because I love love.

LOVE it.

So, all’s I really got to say is:

You hear that haters? TO THE LEFT!

What’s that you say? Relocation isn’t something you’re interested in? Well then, because I’m not a cold-hearted bastard, I’ll give you a second option.

In order to banish these bummed-out blues of yours, all you need to do is watch one film, and I promise you that it has the power to change both your mind and heart:

The magnificent, magical, mesmerizing tour-de-force that is Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain.

If you let it, it will change your life.

After a week of where every day began by lugging my sluggish, bedraggled body out of bed, folding myself over the frozen porcelain of my tub, and standing under the searing stream of my shower – steaming my eyelids open as water pooled around my ankles (think the way you do to envelopes, when you’re not supposed to see their contents) – this movie pretty much saved my soul.

If you have never seen it, I recommend that you run (not walk) to your closest video rental store (erm, do these even exist anymore?) and rent the crap out of it.

You will not be disappointed.

Unless of course, you detest the accordion, because then, well, we may have hit the one and only snag.

No! I cannot say that. Because even if this was the case I would still recommend this film, because I am of the mind that even those who are intolerant (wrongly so, might I add!) of this fantastic instrument will still appreciate the soundtrack – a score that is beautiful and haunting and romantic and sublime.

Just listening to the beginning notes of the first song makes me want to dance in the middle of cobble-stone streets, kiss under water-stained, moonlit bridges, and ride bicycles with baskets filled with fresh herbs, sunflowers, and one (very) well behaved cat – don long, flowing skirts, and fitted, cap-sleeve blouses, and take round the world trips, – drink wine by the gulp, and cafes by the sips.

Alas…

Also, I have also decided that my favourite word in the French language is ronfle. (This, to be fair, is not so romantic. But still awesome.)

To spring, or not to spring, that is (Mother Nature's) question...

In the spirit of adventure and intrigue, on Saturday afternoon Mr. M and I threw caution to the wind, and went on the hunt for escapades and exploits a-plenty.

We started off on Commercial Drive, walking the length of the neighbourhood, stopping in at the fine art and clothing vendors along the way.

We had run pretty hard earlier that morning, so when it came time to eat, we decided to have lunch at the absolutely delish La Grotta Del Formaggio.

Oh my goodness.

Seriously people. GO THERE.

What I love so much about this establishment, is that it is like stepping into a time warp. I’m pretty sure the layout of the store hasn’t changed much in close to fifty years (and I’d wager a guess that the same can be said for the management) – the shelves are stocked with everything you could possibly imagine: dozens of different brands of olive oil, biscotti, dried pastas – a veritable smorgasbord of good eats!

Their sandwiches are also to die for – chose your bread, topping, meat (and if you don’t want meat, you get extra cheese!) and then they toast it up for you in jiffy.

We found two seats outside, sat down with our sammies, and just watched the world go by, stuffing our (very happy) faces with roasted red peppers, and eggplant, artichoke hearts and jalapeno havarti.

NOMNOMNOM

That’s another thing that’s so great about this part of Vancouver. The people-watching is tip-top and fabitty fab (aka DA BEST.) The range of individuals passing you by is mindboggling, and it’s unlikely you’d witness such diversity in many other areas of town.

Also, since I am incapable of walking the Commercial corridor without visiting the (always) taste bud tickling Fratelli’s baker (seriously my friends, it is a sensory overload and a half heading into that establishment) I made sure to make a quick pit stop while M was waiting for our paninis to toast.

After finishing up our first course, we set to work on this box of treats:

NOMNOMNOM REDUX

Due to rampant and soul-crushing indecision (and one massive, massive sweet tooth – or is it many, many sweet teeth?) I couldn’t decide on what to order, so I ended up buying a whole swathe of treats, of different sizes, shapes and varieties.

I think overall, my favourite was the red velvet cupcake, and M gave his gold star to the pistachio cake.

Next we continued on our merry way, ever on the look-out for a used edition of either Mind Trap or Trivial Pursuit.

Mr. M wants to play Mind Trap with his students, whereas I want Trivial Pursuit so we can play it every night for the rest of our lives. I’m a little unclear as to why I find playing this game pretty much the most humorous thing to do ever, but there you have it.

Needless to say, the end goal of this mission did not come to fruition (we are still on the hunt – so heed this search flare (or request) my fellow weirdos: if you know of where to procure good quality, used trivia games, do tell (but also consider letting me know ifncode, just to, you know, appeal to my geekiness.)

Okay, I feel as though I’ve fallen quite a bit from my introduction on the brilliance and beauty of love to some strange tangent about board games and nerdiness (one and the same?).

If I can't have Trivial Pursuit, I'll take this awesome sauce desk.

Soldiering on.

Remember how last Monday I wrote about a dress I tried on at Zara and my feelings towards it hadn’t really disappeared and the fact that I hadn’t purchased it was kind of sticking in my craw? Well, I considered taking Mr. M to the store for a second opinion, but before we even made it halfway there, we made a strange, and rather off-the-cuff pit stop at The Bay.

Now, The Bay has recently decided that it is Holt Refrew Part Deux, so I can’t go in there too often lest I begin to convulse compulsively and just start shouting (at no one in particular): Who do you think you are kidding with this crap?

But as long as I make it to the third floor in relatively stable condition, I am good to go (and not bait for the men in the white coats.) Anywho, to make a long story short, I ended up trying on and purchasing this majorly cute BCBC dress for twenty dollars!!!

YAY!

(For serious, this may be the most proud I have ever been of a purchase in my life. Plus it has little stars and planets all over it! And pockets! My head explodes with happiness just thinking of it.)

Make it so!

I should also say that I really, really love clothing from BCBG. I know a lot of it can be pretty kooky and out there (two characteristics I should never judge, lest I break all the glass houses with all the stones) but most of their pieces are so beautiful my heart beats faster just thinking about them.

And here I was, purchasing one at an eighty-five percent markdown.

I. Just. Couldn't. Help. Myself.

Bliss.

Which, I feel I should point out, probably wouldn`t have happened, had it not have been for a love-fuelled adventure, inspired by a love-filled movie.

So there ya go.

Haters gonna hate, but this lover is gonna rock her discount frock – until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.

We’ve got it down to a tea

Today, as my mother would also say, is a day for the ducks.

This awful perma-drizzle that we’ve going on is pretty much the equivalent of operating within the water arc of the world’s finest (but also largest) sprinkler.

Or, to put it in much simpler terms: it’s like living inside a very, very, low hanging cloud. (Which isn’t that too far off from the truth – the sky is so low, I feel as though I could touch it, if only my name was Ms. Stretch.)

Also, it’s DANG cold.

Urgh.

For someone like me, who has terrifically bad circulation, this is a recipe for disaster.

For one, my hands are always freezing.

This, of course, means that every time I introduce myself to someone and shake their hand, I get the obligatory “your hands are so cold!” to which I have to reply “well…you know what they say – cold hands, warm heart!”(After saying this for some reason I always feel like dancing a short jig, or slapping them on the back, or something equally as strange) and then they think I’m basically a nine hundred year old weirdo.)

Full disclosure: that observation is only half-correct.

Seriously though, whilst at work (when I’m not typing away like a typing thing), I have to alternate warming my hands between my legs (when I have them crossed,) sitting at my desk, lest I lose feeling in them for what can range from a couple of minutes, to pretty much the rest of my day.

There were times in my undergrad when I would be writing an in-class essay and I would lose all feeling in a two, or three of my pen-holding fingers. They would grow strangely stiff, before turning a (terribly off-putting) bone white (with just the faintest tint of blue),  and I would be stuck rubbing them for what seemed like hours, post-exam, in order to get them back to a “normal” range of motion and, you know, hue.

Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure one of my office mates (a rather shy and awkward gentlemen) thinks that I am completely barmy, because every time he walks by my office I have my hands mashed betwixt my legs.

I am sure that his impression of the situation is this: me (el grade pervo) mashing my hands (enthusiastically) in my general crotchular area ALL THE FRIGGEN TIME.

(I am well aware that “crotchular” isn’t a word, but I feel as though it is the best way to sum up what it is I am trying to describe.)

No joke, sometimes when I see him casting (covert) glimpses into my office (although this of course could just be a symptom on my growing insanity, and or paranoia) I just want to yell out “I’M NOT A PERVERT! MY HANDS ARE JUST REALLY COLD!”

Even though these are probably display cookies, I still want to eat them all.

In my head, the “I am not a pervert” part would always be done in the voice of Richard Nixon.

(Okay, now I know for sure that I am completely deranged.)

Anywho, today my delightful and hilarious colleague J and I went and had tea and macarons at the lovely little French bakery Soirette, just down the street from us in Coal Harbour.

It was such a brilliant way to spend our lunch hour, on an otherwise dreary and bleak Friday afternoon.

We both decided to order “Pink Champagne” tea (seriously out-of-this-world amazing – it was a black tea with strong raspberry undertones, that somehow came out yellow when poured!) before selecting three cookies to taste.

J chose passion fruit, fererro rocher, and salted caramel, whilst I picked (also) fererro rocher, lemon, raspberry.

For real, I could eat these tasty treats until they started growing out of my ears.

Happiness

In short: they were simply divine! Crunchy, but smooth – silky and flavourful, but not overpowering, nor were they too sweet.

My favourite was hands down the raspberry flavour, and J gave the salted caramel her top marks.

Come on. Dunk me. DUNK ME!

Afterwards, we strolled up the street, talking the long way back to our building. When you are filled to the brim with sweets and tea, facing the rain-soaked murk is such an easier task!

(Although, living in Lotus Land, you have to be extra careful not to have your umbrella crash into the many others parading down the sidewalk. We had a few close calls.)

Also, am I the only one of the mind that if there is even the minutest possibility that an individual could use their parapluie as a substitute for their tent the next time they go camping, it might be just a tad too large for everyday use?

This is the kind of flower power Mario and Luigi fight AGAINST.

Come on people, we’re (possibly) in a recession here. Learn the art of downsizing!

Speaking of outrageous excess, a couple of week ago I was walking the south Granville corridor (I could probably just stop there, couldn’t I?) when I espied the current window dressing at the store Anthropologie.

I don’t know if 1.) I am becoming more and more disconnected from what is actually “fashionable”, 2.) I am turning into a cranky old codger, or 3.) the fashion industry is trolling us all, (perhaps the answer is a mixture of all three) but the clothing on display was (to me and to put it mildly) MAJORLY OBJECTIONABLE.

Skin tight, floral-print skinny pants and some kind of fishing net inspired, mesh top?

Good grief.

Do not want.

But of course I went inside (with the full intention of trying the outfit on to further illustrate my point), however my upchuck reflex was fully engaged when I saw not only that the pants were priced at $240.00 (!!!) but that they also had wide-legged floral nightmares for sale (priced at a similar amount).

No. Just no.

Good thing my fainting couch was nearby, because the intake of that information alone damn near well killed me.

Still no.

(Okay, I won’t lie, I did try on a couple of cute dresses, and some non-violent seizure inducing priced pants, but none of these articles of clothing took my breath away, so they remained at the store for another day.)

P.S. I am still thinking about that Zara dress from Monday. I may just have to return for another try…

In terms of my blue mood from this past Wednesday, I have not been one hundred percent successful in righting myself to my normal level of joie de vivre – but do not despair, my lovely cyber pals –  I am getting there.

Slowly but surely – one macaron, one potential party dress, one fashion diatribe at a time –

I am getting there.

Five things I just don’t get

There are some things that just don’t work for me, no matter how hard I try.

I’ve written here before about how I worked (hard, mind you) for the last eight years to bring Radiohead into my life, but to no avail.

Seriously, as much as I love this video of Thom Yorke dancing to Single Ladies, I just cannot for the life of me accept the majesty (or whatever adjective you believe best sums up their brilliance or transcendence) of their music in my life.

 

We are like oil and water.

So without further ado, here are five things I just don’t get.

1.)  Beer. Seriously. For the life of me, I cannot do it and do not understand how anyone could enjoy drinking it.

I miss me a two pound glass of wine every so often.

Like Radiohead, I made a valiant effort to make it a part of my life, particularly during the early years of my undergrad. It seemed like every post-class pub gathering-cum-night out inevitably meant a (seemingly) unlimited supply of amber coloured, frothy, frosty, pitchers of ale – I figured if I was going to survive in these social situations I better learn to enjoy it.

However it seemed as though the more effort I made, the more it did nothing for me, save give me brutal cases of the “urgh-I-can-taste-what-I-ate-for-dinner-last-night-burps” and then make me need to use the loo every twenty minutes or so, after I (begrudgingly) found my way to the bottom of my first glass.

Not cool man. This aversion to malt, barley, and hops (the much less successful Simon and Garfunkle follow-up to Scarborough Fair) made me feel like a giant square (and I got to relive this shame over again, and ten-fold worse at that, when Mr. M and I lived in Jolly Ole England. Bah.)

What I wouldn’t have done to just once have had comrade in arms to turn to me and say, “Hey – anyone want to order the cheapest bottle of wine on the menu and split it me?”

Why yes. Yes good sire, I do.

2.)  Peep toe boots.

SERIOUSLY?

I don’t understand. I don’t understand how this makes any sense, to anyone, ever.

NO.

WHO BUYS THIS CRAP? And why? How do they think it looks good? WHY do they think it looks good?

How do they think it could ever possibly be practical?

This for me is like, that craziest, weirdest, most inane fashion trend ever.

It’s winter. It’s freezing. What the heck are you doing wearing shoes that have holes in them? I almost feel as though the fashion industry is trolling the entire female population of the world to see how far they can actually push the sanity envelope before the shoe (har har, no pun intended) drops, and people start to call shenanigans.

(Or at least, I hope this is the case.)

Plus it just looks FRICKEN bonkers.

Writing this out I feel as though Otto, from A Fish Called Wanda would agree with me:

 

3.)  Cricket.

What. The. Heck.

I don’t actually know if anyone truly understands this sport.

For colonial inspired athletics, I’ll stick to rugby.

I'll take it!

4.)  Soft cheeses.

Brie. Camembert. Blue. Roquefort.  No. No. No. NO.

Swiss raclette - the antithesis of snot cheese.

For many years cheese (of any kind) played zero part in my life. I didn’t eat it on anything (including pizza – for real, I would order pizza sans cheese because I disliked it so much.)

Slowly but surely I came to see the error of my ways (falling in love with a Swiss mister certainly had something to do with my transformation) but to this day I cannot do any soft, rindy cheeses.

They seriously slay me.

They make me feel as though I am eating feet flavoured snot.

And no amount of shaming (I know what you’re thinking! Stop looking at me!) will change that.

Urgh.

5.)  The English Royal Family. I do not for the life of me understand the fascination with royalty, particularly the obsession of those who live outside of the United Kingdom.

Sure, I get why those inside the UK may like them – it’s a way to cling to an antiquated representation of the power their country once had on an the international stage.

Okay, I know that sounds super harsh, and I’m sorry. (But, it’s true.)

But for people who live either in the commonwealth, or (even more baffling) those who don’t (particular in countries that were exploited, subjugated, and brutalized by the Brits) to actively support an institution that symbolizes imperialism, hierarchy, racism, classism, and well, general intolerance – the mind boggles.

If I need to take the queen – I’ll take her as a member of Kids in the Hall:

 

BONUS:

6.)  Gene Wolfe. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure no one else gets him either though.

So folks, I’ll pass the question on to you: What can you not get, no matter how hard you try? Please share (but I’ll take wine if you’re buying.)

She works hard for the money

On days like today, when the weather gods and goddesses are smiling down on the fair (or otherwise) inhabitants of Southwest BC, there is a tree visible from my office window.

Standing alone, its branches spindly and ramrod, reaching for the heavens, it glows golden, as though kissed by a rogue ray of sunshine – it has been set aflame.

Glow little tree, glow with all your might!

It’s a spectacular sight to behold, and one I so often miss on days dominated by cloud cover and rain.

In an attempt to jazz up my work days, I have been making an attempt to incorporate more pretty things (most of which are predominately dresses) into my weekly wardrobe.

Another factor playing into this decision was my (still current) self-imposed restriction on purchasing new goods – this ban has been making it harder and harder to recycle my most tried and true outfits. For real, there is a limited number of times I can wear my pink cable-knit sweater before my skin will end up permanently dyed rose, and my skin tattooed with that unmistakable braid pattern.

Eep.

Plus, I have a pretty solid collection of frocks that don’t see much action outside of weddings and fancy events, which unfortunately can be few and far between in the winter months. Just seeing them in my closet makes my heart skip a beat – I’m not one to purchase things willy-nilly. If I buy it, it means that I like it. 

I like it a lot. 

A closet dominated by “work” clothes. Don’t worry, I’m a champ with the iron.

I am also not ashamed to admit that during the long stretches of time where I don’t have a chance to wear these beautiful outfits, sometimes it can be pretty fun to play dress up or have an impromptu fashion show, trying out different shoe-dress combinations – whether I’m on my own, or I’ve gotten M to act as my audience or critic.

(Mostly audience, sometimes critic.)

Yet, to be honest, getting into this new work-fashion grove was a little harder than I thought.

I was really nervous to even try it out.

Why, exactly was this, might you ask? I asked myself the same question.

It has been pretty darn interesting to sift through the many reasons that I found this decision to be much more of a challenge than I’d originally imagined it to be, particularly when it came down its execution.

It was not just a simple change of clothing to me.

I should stress that it wasn’t the opinion of colleagues or random passersbys that played into this aversion (in fact, I receive wonderful, reassuring, reactions, not to mention blush-inducing compliments every time I have donned a new outfit) – at the root of it, it was me.

Mostly I was afraid of looking like I had mistakenly showed up to a corporate workplace, instead of my intended destination (high tea with the Queen of England – aka Helen Mirren) after having taken that wrong turn at Albuquerque.

Or you know – that I was ten years old.

But mostly, and here I am a bit ashamed to even type out the words, I think I was afraid that the more feminine I dressed, the less likely I would be taken seriously – at the different lunches I go to, presentations I give, meetings I attend, interviews I conduct.

I am much younger than many of my colleagues, and I find that I often make myself hyper aware of this fact.

I put myself on edge, feeling as though I have to prove that, despite my age, I am a bloody rock-star at my job.

As such, if I dress too “womanly,” (combined with my obvious youth) I might command less respect, whereas when I dress “manly”, I have already knocked down one barrier (whether it be real or not – at least in my current position.)

Now, I understand that in reality, in my current situation, this hypothesis is most likely total crap. Assigning a gender to my clothing choices, and then evaluating my job performance (or at least how others may perceive, and therefore assess my performance) is pretty ridiculous.

However on a macro level (and micro for many, many others), both age and sex are two huge factors that negatively impact an individual’s professional success.

(I am also aware that the age factor is also a problem as you reach the other end of the scale.)

So it’s interesting to note, that while I am not in a position myself to be harmed by these attitudes, I have already internalized them, rendering an outsider’s imposition of them onto me a moot action.

In one word this is completely crazy.

One of the dresses I was originally too afraid to wear to work.

I’ve worked with enough people to understand that confidence in your abilities, coupled with a stellar work-ethic and solid output outweighs whatever outfit you may or may not be wearing on any given day – particularly if you present yourself as a professional, put-together individual.

And yet I stress over whether or not a beautiful, semi-formal dress, coupled with a cardigan/suit jacket and flats would somehow strip me of my professional legitimacy.

Thinking about this has really tripped me up, and opened up many other questions.

For instance:

When I wear a suit to work (specifically if I wear it with a tie, as I often do) and I doing so because I like the aesthetic of the outfit, or am I subconsciously trying to fit a preferred mould (aka presenting myself as a “male” somehow legitimizes my position?)

Or, am I able to just write it off to nothing more than the fact that I have always been attracted to men’s clothing, and because I am tall and lanky, this style of wardrobe works particularly well with by body type?

Or, at an even simpler level, am I just nervous of overdressing at work? As much as people may dislike the chronically underdressed, those who show up daily, ready for a black-tie formal, rarely escape criticism either.

At the root of it, I know this:

I first and foremost pride myself on presenting myself as a professional.

I just need to remember that first and foremost I am a professional.