We meet again, procrastination, my beloved past time. I tend to put off things when I have writer’s block and am completely uninspired. Take this for what it is though, because this is coming to you from unpublished author, Alex Williamson. Typically, this means I delay posting a photo on instagram because the only thing that matters to me is the caption. Once the photo goes up and I decide that I hate the caption (which is almost every time), I wallow in self-loathing. Over a photography app. As if people are actually stopping to read what I believe are little witticisms and one-liners. I think this sums up my personality quite nicely actually– I overthink things and miss the point.
Overthinking and missing the point brings us right back to this blog– this fashion blog — where I always stare at the keyboard and contemplate whether or not I want to get uber-personal with whomever is reading this and just blow his/her mind with the bizarre musings of my 20something’s brain. Then it dawns on me: the people reading this blog are most likely my mom’s friends, my lovely grandparents, friends of friends. To over-share would be inappropriate and disrespectful to my sweet southern parents and grandparents and all of their friends who remember me from when I was but a wee thing. So instead I go back to staring at the keyboard, wondering how the hell I’m going to make talking about burgundy lace interesting.
And then my ADD kicks in and I find myself doing anything other than Thursday’s blog post. For example, last night, I sat at the computer after a couple of hot toddys in my tipsy state of mind and tried to think of something to say. I referred to instagram, where I revealed my struggle, and a beautiful girl friend suggested I write about cheese because everyone loves queso. “CHEESE! YES!” I thought to myself. And then I jumped in the car, headed for the neighborhood hot bar to grab some macaroni and cheese (which I eat on average four times a week because I have the palate of an eight-year-old boy). By the time I got there, they were closing down shop, and my creamy side dish was running on empty. (side note: does anyone else hate the word “creamy” or is it only me?) It’s freezing in Dallas, so I figured I’d just grab whatever soup was left in the pot. The expressive cook working the grill tried to scrape the ladle against the bottom of the pot for remnants of soup and looked at me — partly apologetic, partly disgusted, and completely embarrassed for me that I was planning to eat the sad lentil soup leftovers.
In honesty, the girl at the cash register with beautiful eye makeup and noticeably false lashes should have taken one look at the crappy cup of soup, handed me a spoon, said “good luck with that” and sent me on my way with my free cup of lentils. But she didn’t notice the green mush, she was too busy “ooo-ing” and “ahhhing” at my outfit. She went ballistic for what I was wearing. “Girl, where’d you get those boots? And that coat!” she shrilled. “Oh, these old things?” I acted bashful and then casually spun around, modeling my outfit for her. We giggled and talked fashion and I realized I would have paid for the empty macaroni, too, because I’m a girl who secretly thrives on a compliment. Sad soup in hand, I headed for the door. “You take care of those boots, now!” She shouted. “Oh, girl, you know I will!!!” I shouted back and we both laughed as I strolled out the door with a smug look on my face. In that moment, at 10 o’clock on a Wednesday night, I, Alex Williamson, was the shit.
I exited the door and the cold Dallas air whipped across my face and slapped me back to reality. “You’re a fraud,” whispered the bully inside my brain. I quickly deflated. This time, the bully was right. I am an absolute fraud. The boots weren’t mine. I stole them.
Ok, I’m partly kidding. The boots weren’t mine, but my shoplifting record to this day is clean. Yesterday, I got dressed in my moms closet. The incredible leopard print pony hair boots were hers. The gorgeous vintage orange coat was an heirloom given to her by one of my fairy godmothers. The majority of the pieces in my mother’s closet are out of this world because she has impeccable taste and an eye for unique pieces. I will forever be at her mercy because one of my favorite things to do is play dress up with her clothes (less eight-year-old-boy, more eight-year-old girl). And we will undoubtedly bicker into old age because she is methodically organized and I am too scatterbrained to remember that someone invented coat hangers when I undress at night. She thinks it’s disrespectful to the clothes (she’s right, don’t tell her that though), I think it’s because I’m tired and those little extra steps keep me from the bed.
However, I’m proud to tell you that the dress I’m wearing in these photos is mine. I bought it. All Alex. And it’s only around $30 at Asos if you can believe that (you should, because I paid for it). The glasses? I bought those too, because I’m pretty confident I’m Warby Parker’s customer of the year. The boots, the jacket, the hat, — Alex originals– gifted to me by my mom. The purse came from her closet too, because she’s the shit, not me.
Notice how long it took me to get to the point of this post? I struggle with excess and now this post is four hours late and you’ve just spent time your reading about lentil soup (if we can even call it that).
Don’t get caught red-handed,
Alex (Boo) // @theboohemian
Photos by Kate McConville