Last night I went to Anthropologie with the express purpose of buying a blazer with which to increase my professionalism, productivity, and general sense of self (didn't work; see aforementioned boobs), but instead I fell for this super awesome and frivolous beaded clutch.
I hemmed and hawed and finally, bolstered by the thought of how adorable said clutch would look against my summer skin (same as my winter skin, maybe slightly more red), decided to buy it. I was in line to check out when I literally thought, "You don't deserve this." Then I turned around, climbed over the rope line, and left the store.
I don't DESERVE a $40 beaded clutch? What kind of bullshit self-hatred is that? It's International Women's Day, for fuck's sake. Sometimes I feel like I'm perpetually babysitting my 15-year-old self, all Fiona Apple and body dysmorphia, scrubbing her spit-covered thumb against the pen lines someone drew between the freckles on her legs, terrified to the point of inner collapse before she even made it down the stairs for breakfast.
Have some champagne, kid. We're gonna go buy you that clutch. And a new bright pink lipstick. 13 years from now you'll even be bold enough to wear it.
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