Before you get all judgy on me right now, let me remind you that I am not getting paid to write this blog.
It is not an assignment.
I am willingly exposing my soft, pink metaphorical underbelly here to you all, and the only thing I ask for in return is that you be gentle with me.
But seriously. What the F*CK was I thinking, keeping this for the last two decades? (And I’m talking about the top, BTW. We can talk about the skirt later I’m feeling incredibly vulnerable at the moment so please, hush.)
I’ll tell you what I was thinking: I wore this on my second real date with my now-husband. (And I can only hope that the lining wasn’t all jacked up like that twenty years ago this May; it wasn’t, right?). I wore this when I was young and in love and my heart raced every time I looked at the very tall, impossibly handsome, extremely clean-shaven man who later that night would ask me if he could kiss me and two years later would ask me to marry him and five and seven years later, respectively, would give me two amazing, healthy, gorgeous, too-good-to-be-true daughters.
IT’S SPECIAL, DAMMIT.
Excuse me while I
CRY MY FACE OFF take a moment to reflect.
Would I remember all of that without this top? Probably. But maybe not as often? Or as vividly? I honestly don’t know. Will my girls one day read this blog and say “MOM YOU GOT RID OF YOUR SECOND DATE TOP? HOW COULD YOU?” There’s actually a good chance, since they’re both sentimental hoarders don’t give me that look.
Should I keep it, you guys? For what it’s worth and believe it or not, I no longer have the outfit I wore on our first date (ripped jeans and a white button up top, yup), so this is the closest I’ve got.
Your words of wisdom (BE NICE) are welcome.