My outfit today is well coordinated; I couldn’t help but be pleased with myself. Again I marvel at how comfortable I’ll be in my outfit, plus I’ll be “cute”. Crap, my alarm goes off, time to hop into the shower. After fifteen minutes of soul searching and off key singing, I hop out ready to take on the day in all my fashion forward glory. Time to get dressed, I approach my outfit with admiration. There it lay on my bed, my favorite black graphic tee and my most comfy blue jeans. Yes, I like this. I make short time of putting my clothes on before moving to the second phase of my fashionable struggle, make-up.

I take my position at my battle station, my mirror as my commander and my make up kit the artillery. Good grief, I can’t help the disapproving cluck I let out after examining the dark circles under my eyes, or the blemish marks. I smile inwardly, fret not, nothing a little concealer and foundation can’t fix. Again I find myself clucking disapprovingly as I think “why couldn’t I just be one of those girls with flawless skin?” I don’t try to answer this question, I ask the beauty god’s this every day, apparently they’re still too busy to answer. I make quick work of my makeup, topping of my look with my signature batwing eye-line. I throw my favorite sterling silver hoop earrings on for good measure. Ah, I feel fabulous. Now I must approach phase three, hair.

It seems my summer-ly tradition of shaving the sides of my head was not so smart at all. Lord knows styling one’s hair during the awkward stages of re-growth is a challenge. I give up on my stylistic endeavors, settling on straightening my bangs and simply brushing the back. I sigh, that was stressful.

I’m all set. I observe my finished look, strike a few poses, and snap a couple “selfies” for Instagram, because yes, I’m just that narcissistic. My morning routine is complete, I feel quite fashionable. I grab my keys and back pack and head out.

I step out of my apartment and into the great big world of fashion with such optimism, you can tell by the pep in my step.

As I continue further away from the comfort of my apartment. I become acutely aware that perhaps my sense of fashion is not as sharp as I initially thought. I’d felt so confident that wearing my cool anime tee, blue jeans and combat boots were fashionable, until I began see the Barbies. The girls with the perfect hair, impeccable makeup, and their cleverly coordinated femme outfits.

Suddenly I don’t feel so confident anymore. I go through my day praying for the torture to end, but It doesn’t. My day drags till it finally (thank heavens) comes to a close. By then I’m tired, not from the days hardships but from my worries of my own un-fashionable short comings. I make quick work of the journey home. I see my apartment and I see paradise, I begin to feel better. I enter my home and welcome the familiarity. I sigh and begin to relax, it feels good to be home in my own unfashionable paradise. But you want to know the funny part? I’m going to wake up tomorrow and follow the same routine again. Here ends the musings of an unfashionable fashionista.

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