Get some insight....October

Just think, halfway through this month I realized that I didn't do a proper insight in September. Oops. Take this instead (the link is in the "this" in case that isn't clear).

However, here we are, at the end of October, otherwise known as Halloween! When you're reading this I'll be out and about in a ruffled skirt I've been wearing for this occasion since I was ten and a little witch-hat-tiara, following the invitation of a couple as - gasp - part of a couple myself.
I think I need a paper bag.
See, I really like to go out dancing, but I've never actually went with, well, a guy. I don't know how to dance around a guy. Or rather, I do, but that would be weird since we're already kind of involved so there wouldn't be much of a point in sparking his interest in me via my dancing - Gosh, that was probably the most unfeminist thing I've ever said. Scratch that. I'll just dance by myself, for myself only. I am my own happy place and all that.

Now that's settled, I'd like to formerly announce that it will be my birthday in 36 days (as of now, the 27th) and that I'll be 20 years old (oh, dear Lord) and that I have absolutely no clue how to savor this grand event adequately. Cocktails? Might be too noisy and dark to chat with more than the two people next to me. Dinner? Same thing because long tables. And a full mouth. A get-together at home? Not dressy enough. If people ignore my outfit guidelines, that is. It's a tough decision, lovelies.

Realization of the month: I was so much funnier in February to June WhatsApp conversations than I feel like I am in my current ones. My previous moments of inspired remarks actually made me laugh in hindsight like the self-invested person I am, whereas nowadays, I like to start dialogues by sending an unsolicited picture of a box of gum. That reminds me that I haven't gotten an answer to that yet. I guess I can't blame anyone here, though - I'd have a hard time to figure out a) how to respond at all and b) what's wrong with someone who doesn't have anything more profound to say than "Look, it's Mentos' bubblegum". Takes some time.

Anyhow, victory has struck in the hoodie harness! I'm free to show up to the shoot in something pretty as long as it's all-black. I'm overflown with joy. But more stupid decisions are threatening to be made regarding other projects: I don't yellingly interrupt the girl briefing our make-up artist for one second and she's already asking her to smear gel all over the model's face and buy red mascara out of nowhere. I swear that's how these things end up happening in editorials. The only sane person in the room probably sneezed and closed their eyes for a blink and suddenly, the stylists cut off all the pants in a fit of creativity and now we all have to deal with finding the right shoes to go with "culottes".

Fashion formula: Freezing before heating. Doesn't work as a rhyme but you get where I'm coming from; I need to remember every morning that I generally feel better in sheer nylons and heeled shiny boots than I do in thermo tights that catch all the cat hair and flat muddy shoes. Even though my body tries to convince me otherwise when I'm shivering in front of my closet at 6am, urging me to reach for the sweater I've been wearing around the house for five days, because it feels so much like my blanket. I'll regret that thought as soon as I run into the first person I know who hasn't seen me since high school and will now remember me forever as the short girl who suffered from a heatstroke on a train, rattling out "I have so much nicer clothes!" before collapsing in a huddle of stone colored wool and worn-out black jeans.
No, thanks. I'll take silk blouses and slit-up skirts over that anytime. The cold never bothered me aaaaanyway....

Stay warm by being hot stuff, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith