This is what I wore last Friday – as much color as I could muster in fulfillment of an earlier promise.
As you may have noticed already, unlike other thirtysomething bloggers, mentioning my age is not a big deal for me.
Anti-aging creams and serums? Who needs them?
I say let your laugh lines show. Be proud of your crow’s feet.
Though you’ll see that worry has equally marked my large forehead.
T-shirt, Folded & Hung
Denim vest, DIYed from a thrifted denim jacket
Cargo pants, Izzue
Belt (barely seen), A.P.C.
Beanie, don’t remember (as usual)
My classmates in high school would tell you that in no way did I control both the volume of my laugh way back then – in fact, I think I actually formulated it in the same size that I believed my personality occupied (I was part of an angsty theater group).
Throughout the years, and the dramatically different phases in my life, my laugh has remained loud, though I wouldn’t say measured. As then, I don’t try to silence it. I am told that its volume still indicates my presence.
Big enough, I hope, to dispel any demons that wander in the air and might, at any time, decide to take root. Inhabit my outlook.
I say laugh from your belly and love from your gut, always remembering to keep a cool head on.
Not only malicious spirits, but ailments and tumors can feed on any unresolved resentment or unexpressed emotions.
Life is short. While I don’t prescribe going about it like an aimless clown or jester, I do suggest that we both embrace it and learn to let things go.
Walk in both light and shadow, laughter and sorrow.
Just like The Dark Knight’s The Joker, don’t be deceived by anything.