Girl Anachronicles

I haven’t created a new look at ShopStyle.com for a long time now (it’s an incredibly fun timewaster, though, but I don’t have all that much leisure time anymore). However, I’ve lately found myself revisiting this style more frequently:

It’s all in the boots, people. I first became enamored of Doc Martens-style boots at the age of 15. I was in public school, and rules on footwear were much more lax than they’ve become in later years. I bought my first 10-eye-Doc Martens-imitation pair at a Payless Shoe Store and wore them daily: to school, to hang outs … I have to confess that I even lost my virginity with those boots on my feet. They lasted more than enough, considering the wear and strain on them, and they were cast into the dark oblivion of my closet as soon as the sole went unglued. Later on, moths did their final work on them and they were rendered irreparable.

Later on I fell in love with another pair, this time off a Delias catalog. They were 14-eye with a raised toe, slightly glossier than what I was used to. They were incredibly uncomfortable at first, but I broke them in, and after that they were a total hit in my life. I loved those boots until their fiery demise five years ago.

I haven’t owned a pair of proper boots since then. I guess I thought I had outgrown the boot-wearing phase, but this sudden obsession has proved me wrong. I bought a pair of knee-high boots the other day at Hot Topic:

They look incredibly cool, but I realized today they’re not that awesome for walking long distances or for extended periods of time. Part of the boot-craving is to have a good pair of shoes to massacre on my upcoming trip to NYC. These boots do not fit the bill for such a purpose.:-(

So I’m back to square one on my quest for some nice, comfy Doc Martens boots. Maybe I should cut the crap and invest on the real deal. I think I’m ready to commit to boots again.

These past few days have been a bit of a Self Crisis. If I were turning 45 in the next March 8th, I’d say I was having a bit of a mid-life crisis. What I refuse to admit, though, is that I’m having a Turning 30 Crisis, ‘cuz that is just plain stupid, and I will have none of that in this house (my body is a temple!).

I’ve been feeling the strongest of urges: to go out drinking, to get a tattoo, to cut my hair, to dye it blue-black (again), to get my nails done, to do a total overhaul of what “Diana” has come to mean in the past few years. I had never felt so strongly about these things, and I’m a bit scared of going near any shopping mall, in fear that I might get drawn into it and shop myself a new self-image, leaving my credit card maxed out and my economy whimpering on a thin line.

Unfortunately, Ebay exists, and I’ve already succumbed to the purchase of 2 pairs of spiral taper plugs (earrings, for those not familiar with bod-mod lingo): one pair black, the other red. And I’m on the lookout for Hermes sandals, which are not that easy to find (good quality, i mean. The rip-offs abound and will give you a blister you will not soon forget). What else lies in store for this phase of compulsive buying and tendency to make myself over? I dunno. I bought a henna conditioner treatment yesterday, but that is just a lame pacifier for the forces that usually cause my transformations. It’s like stopping a hurricane with a butterfly net.

*sigh* The itch for ink has just begun. Whip out your tattoo guns, boys. It’s just a matter of time before I enter a door asking for mayhem on my skin.

Yesterday I went shopping by myself after work. My sister told me there were Rocket Dog shoes on sale at Montehiedra’s Marshalls store, so I had to go and check that out (I’m a hardset fan of Rocket Dogs, they’re so comfy! ^_^).

But no luck was to be had on that mission. There were Rocket Dogs alright: ugly, ill-fitting affairs (are they really Rocket Dogs?), or not in my size. So I started browsing around and headed for the purse area. A few weeks ago my messenger bag purse suffered its “demise” along with a shirt I held as a favorite (they were both drenched in earthy water that sprayed out of the A/C console of the office’s trolley van. I looked like a ladybug for the rest of the day).

The bags I liked right off the bat surprised me with very steep price tags ($100+, damned be leather and it’s powerful, attractive smell and feel!!!). I took my very sweet time shopping around, comparing, sweating it out. My brother called me in the middle of it all, and I realized I was shopping like my mother shops, with the only difference that I wasn’t inflicting anybody else with the pain of it. I’m definitely a slow shopper. I finally decided myself on a red, crocheted bag from The Sak (It even has a metal tag that assures me that it is “The Original” … how comforting! 8-D )

After that, I decided, halfway to the register counter, that I might as well change my wallet too. It had been years since I had last bought a new wallet. ‘Kitty wallet’ (a small, black wallet with Emily Strange’s black cat patched on top) was running small on me, I don’t know why. It’s not like I applied for a thousand new credit cards all of a sudden, but it wasn’t buttoning up as well as it should have. So I got an indigo-colored, leather Tignanello wallet (damned be leather!).

The whole purchase amounted up to a bit over $50. I’m still a bit weirded out at myself. My brother kept telling me it was weird seeing me with a purse. And so it is! I’ve been holding onto my college buying-and-wearing habits, I think out of fear of turning into a corporate, suit-wearing zombie lady. Yeah, the one that buys The Sak handbags and Tignanello wallets, I think. But I feel strangely fine about all this, because what I thought it represented is not gonna happen anyway.

Yesterday I ran into an old college aqcuaintance, and I realized that in spite of the 8 years past, I am still the same garbled mess of a person I was back then (albeit fatter … or more pregnant-looking, thank you ¬_¬). And I like it that way, but at the same time my instincts tell me that it’s time to grow up into the woman my mother and stepmother have been nudging me to be. I suspect I might turn out to be a garbled, messy version of that, but I’m fine with that too.

I’m beginning to feel a bit more comfortable in my own skin (sagginess and cellulitis included), and oddly enough the crocheted, red handbag that now hangs from my shoulder, with the indigo, leather wallet inside it are proof to myself that … precisely … I don’t need to prove anything to anyone other than myself. And that I can give myself permission to be as “adult” as I’ve always feared to be (lest I start growing old, god forbid!) … of course, in my own, particular … idiom. (thank you, sweet Concorde! )