Why I didn’t go to the Farmer’s Market this morning

Brett loves for me to go places with him. It’s his love language…along with “acts of service”, “gifts” and certain sexual practices where I’m doing all the work.  He bounces right out of sleep to “do you want to go to the Farmer’s Market with me?” Peeling an eyelid open I realize that I have spent the night and I have no clothes.

This represents a serious dilemma for me. As one knows, I am a STYLISSST. That means that I cannot go to the hippest, hottest, coolest thing happening in Salt Lake on a Saturday in dorky 5 year old stretchy palazzo capri pant thingies (now relegated to pj’s) and no makeup.  I could, but I know that my magnetic personality would draw every hot & happening soul and I would be standing there, smiling, feeling vewwwy uncomfortable.  Because…as one knows….I am a stylissst. There are expectations I have to meet.

Most of my tribe looks to me for chic-ness. When prepared, I really do put on a show. I have Italian hats at home that LIVE for the Farmer’s Market. (I am capitalizing the market here to show respect)  I have sundresses that swoon, that flow languidly over my curves, just to meet the gaze of admiring khaki shorts. I am on stage.

That’s the problem. I am always on stage. Not intentionally, mind you. When all I do is coach others to show up radiant and large and gorgeous and taking the world by the balls it does startle them to see me at home after I’ve spent a day on the couch blogging in my pajamas. Gorgeous is not the word.

Rumpled would be the word.

I really do believe that one should show up in the world TRUEly which means clearly expressing the quirks of one’s character and/or the fabulousness of one’s gams (see @Cheryl Merz).  It’s Style Integrity. And the Farmer’s Market is the IDEAL spot to shine it, baby. Every conscious, sexy soul is out with their pet accessory (see @Godfrey the Goat via @Tara Starling) as the shining star they are. And I am a shining star. And I cannot shine if I do not have my tools.  I could shine in my pajamas but it would confuse people because they would be thinking…”Uh, isn’t she a stylist? She must be drunk this morning.”

So I am shining my *starlight* with you…here…remotely to the Style Carnival we call the Farmer’s Market where all of you are all dolled up with your recyclable bags, milling about in caffeinated wonder about to run into 50 people you know, 4 of which you didn’t want to see (with their new boyfriend/girlfriend) and just barely running out of cash because you found a pair of earrings that you thought, “ooohh…Auretha would love these.”

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