I’ve just woken up to the third alarm clock I set, reconciling myself to the fact that at some point I will need to get out of my blanket burrito to go to work so I’m not fired. I still need to pick out an outfit and probably brush my hair, which is at this point veering dangerously close to Bellatrix Lestrange territory. But first, 5 more mins of sleep.
Can we make that 10? In the grand scheme of things, how terrible would it be, really, if I was fired?
Yep, pretty bad. I would no longer be able to afford pizza. Up we go!
Aight so after consulting the Oracle Siri and discovering that it is 45F but feels like the inside of Satan’s freezer (30F with windchill), it looks like a sweater day. How do I make a sweater work-appropriate? Inspiration strikes. I need something black! And in the turtleneck variety!
Ok nope. I look like Steve Jobs.
How do we feel about instead wearing two shirts layered under a button down? I’ll just look like I’ve thoroughly taken advantage of every holiday dessert that’s come my way in the past 48 hours. Examining myself in the mirror, I realise I look like a business-casual Medusa (re: my still disastrous hair) in the first trimester of her pregnancy. Is this a look? Can I pull this off? Probably not, but as Henry David Thoreau once said, “go confidently in the direction of your dreams.” And right now my dreams are telling me in no uncertain terms to hurry up and get the fuck to a Starbucks for caffeine. This will have to do. Onto my bottom half!
Ugh. Every time I am confronted with the prospect of pants, I am reminded of how much I hate them.
What if I do tights with shorts or a skirt? No. t’s so cold you can literally see my leg hairs sticking out through the tights. In other news, I desperately need to shave. And speaking of shaving, I am this close to pulling a 2007 Britney and shaving off my hair because if possible I think it’s gotten angrier in the past five minutes. Why can’t I have obedient French hair? I bet Clémence Poésy never had to deal with this shit. Make a note: from now on, adhere to a strictly WWCD (what would Clémence do) philosophy.
I am now approaching the task at hand from a new perspective. I am cool. I am zen. I am Clémence.
No, I’m not. I’m pants-less, I’m cold, and now I’m late. Black pants it is. What’s next? Shoes? Shoes! Do I own shoes? Do I need shoes? Can I wear heeled boots? Or flats? Do I have to worry about rain or snow?
Back to the weather app. 50% chance of precipitation between 8h-18h? What the FUCK does that mean? How am I supposed to work with this? Who lives on the edge like that? Screw it, I’m wearing rain boots. With my ugliest, warmest socks. I really need to remember to buy trendier rain boots.
At this point I was supposed to be out the door ten minutes ago, so I need to sacrifice either hair, makeup, or my coffee run. Clearly there is no contest here, so I’m forcing my hair into what I wish could be a cute messy topknot but what looks more like a Russian librarian’s hairstyle of choice. I really need to watch more YouTube tutorials.
I’ve had an epiphany! If I wear sunglasses and a big scarf that covers half my face, I won’t need makeup. I will apply concealer at work. Or maybe I’ll just leave my undereye circles to fend for themselves, which, coupled with my sexy new pudgy silhouette might trick people into feeling sorry for the sick-looking pregnant lady and let me cut them in line at Starbucks. Ha HA.
Grabbing my warmest winter coat I take one look at myself in the mirror and try not to cry.
But it’s fine! Like a dutiful fashion blogger, I’ve scheduled my Instagram posts in advance and the one going out today is look I shot a week ago. No one will have to know that my current State of the Union is me looking like a giant marshmallow. Elly 1, Winter 0.