Yes, I acknowledge the fact that I'm rediculous. I'm a hyper fashion-conscious, morbidly body-conscious, and witheringly self-conscious male teenager who cultivates grandiose gripes to plague his really "pretty-alright" life. I'm smart enough, but not much of an intellectual; my mind usually off somewhere in the ballpark of what I'm wearing tomorrow or how I can lose another three pounds.
As it would have it, one of my dearest friends is a sassy, self-lovin' (thanks, alliteration) intellectual who wears what's clean (and usually fabulous, no matter how unaware she may be of it) and takes shit from none. She's healthy and curvacious (not, eherm, hungry, as I'd put it) and refreshingly grounded...which is not to say that she doesn't like a little bit of the ol' glamour every now and then.
Her name is Lizzie Paul and I truly do love her with all my heart.
She was excited to be blogged, about, to say the least, but there truly is something about her that can relate back to all this fashion business. She's above the glitz, the glamour. The skinny. The incessant updates, changes, and trends. Yet, at the same time, she embodies what queens have heralded for centuries as "fabulous".
A self-proclaimed hippie, she rummages through mounds of the finest thrift offerings (sometimes with yours truly) and dresses daily in bohemian splendour. I'm not talking Delia's, or Urban Outfitters that matter. More Janis Joplin, less Kate Moss.
I've often met up with her at the train stop, a sheepish smile on her hellodarlingI'mafortiesmoviestar face as she asks if "she looks alright"?
I tell her she looks extraordinary because she does.
Over the past year, I've gained the confidence and tenacity that I've now in part because of her. She was a steady source of assurance and support when I was in the process of coming out last fall. She knows me better than I know myself, and is the first person my age that I've befriended that I feel may just HAPPEN to know better than I. We have our tiffs, yes, but you would too with your big sister/Jewish mother/divorcee/anti-hag.
I'm what some call a "fashion person". Lizzie is not. People lament over their style, their identity, the opinions of others. Oftentimes, it's percieved that these are what embody "fashion". Lizzie hasn't tried like I have, made it her interest, blogged about it. Yet here she is, a style icon among my friends (that sounds cheesy, but I would not say it if I did not mean it). It's conscious for me. Unconscious for her.
Go with your instincts.
Know you're right.
Be a Lizzie.