The world is my runway.
The people on the streets of Chicago don’t realize it, but when I leave my apartment and head to the Jewel Osco they have all entered a museum where I am a pedestal and my outfit is a work of art.
Some days I am coy. Others I am drop-dead glamour.
I am a listener. I am quiet. I am awkward. But through my clothes I can speak freely and loudly. When I don an outrageous hat or elaborate broach the people around me notice. Some ignore and some offer compliments. Fashion has become a gateway for interacting with the people around me. Walking from place to place I gather glances and make friends.
Sometimes I check the weather just to put on clothes that are contrary. This tests my love of cashmere in 90-degree weather.
I am not, nor do I desire to be the center of attention… all of the time. I merely wish to disrupt the monotony of my commutes one cravat at a time. The destination is seldom important. I will be overdressed regardless of where I go.
My clothes are not all extravagant. Many of my sweaters are in fact quite bland. Style is all in the way you wear something. The millionaires could have Gucci this and Prada that, but if their fancy clothes are worn incorrectly they might as well shop at TJ Maxx.
Whatever you wear must be worn with confidence and comfort. That is the root of style. Nothing ruins a look like being uncomfortable. Comfort is not found in the physical qualities of clothing, but in the understanding that each garment you wear is meant for you. Walking a mile in someone else’s shoes is usually painful and always unflattering. Style is all in the walk.
Yes, the world is my runway. Each day a new strut.