Since the first taste of summer heat settled over the region a couple of weeks ago, I've been spending my days off in nothing but shorts and lightweight sweaters and various dresses while carrying around the striped canvas tote my best friend gave me for my birthday and wondering whether my gingham pants should be reserved for G&T/martini drinking. For the first time ever, summer dressing has been easy for me. Fall had always been simple, but summer often left me feeling a bit agitated. My journey to outfits was often riddled with thorns. Dressing and undressing and dressing again before telling myself that I was being silly and should leave the house and stop acting like a stereotype wrapped in a cliché. Fidgeting and readjusting and emanating discomfort. Cursing the fact that everything on offer in stores seemed to be floral or bright or white or flowy or some unholy mix of all of those categories at the same time.
But this year something clicked or coalesced or some other word that people use when things fall into place all at once, and I've been hungrily awaiting the heat that I've so often dreaded. When I see summer clothes, possible combinations spring to mind immediately. I dream of jersey and silk and paper-thin cotton. I craft various scenarios where I could wear this.
Or this.
And I look at my tights with disgust.
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