For a while now, I forced myself into a niche that became stifling. As the great American philosopher* Hilary Duff once sung, “Trying to fit a square into a circle / is no lie.”
* I am full of shit and early 2000s pop culture references. Excusez-moi while I Defy.
So, truth bomb: I am not some effulgent Lilly-donned prepster with a closet full of expensive, vividly hued shifts and accoutrements. To be frank, the cut of the brand is unflattering on me, I genuinely hate wearing dresses, and I prefer neutrals to the neons used in Pulitzer palettes. Also, since this is Honesty Hour and I am letting it all out, let me tell y’all that LP is way out of my monetary comfort zone anyway. $98 yoga pants, say what? I am a broke-ass struggling millennial crying into my avocado toast, not a Lady Who Lunches. Zero shade to the country club set but I do not belong and they know it.
It is not difficult to let social media mold you into somebody else, bit by bit. What starts as innocuous browsing can trap you in a gilded cage, trying, trying, trying to keep up with the bloggers and Instagrammers whose lives appear so effortlessly glamourous. Questions, so many questions haunt you while you Frankenstein a new personality. If I had slipped more easily into the Classy Girl in Pearls persona, would I have been better liked by my sisters during my time as a sorority active? Since the fit was off, did the repugnant scent of desperation to be liked escape through the gaps, repelling people instead? Could I have clawed my way into the blogosphere as a top influencer if I had the disposable funds to blow on pretty, meaningless baubles to inspire envy? Perhaps if I had rearranged my life just so, I would be a Somebody now.
While I will never have the answers to those questions, I found myself through the charred remains of burned bridges and wasted cash. I know who I am.
And I like her.