Dear reader, it's no good. I'm not going to get to that whimsical post about wardrobes and makeovers, as promised. Even though I did tag around with my glamorous girls over the Christmas break and purchase some daring pots of lipstick and rouge, I can tell I'm not going to use them. Alas, I know myself too well. And I'm not going to find the time to update my wardrobe to any noteworthy degree, so I won't bother telling you about that, either.
That's what imaginations are for, dear reader. You really would not believe how put-together I appear in my head--part Merchant Ivory heroine, part wild bohemian, part perfectly suited to whatever the current situation demands.
In this case, the current situation demands a tad more professionalism than I've mustered in the past twenty years. It demands I wear items of clothing whose names alone can make me cringe: pants, blouses. Shudder.
I'm facing a busy semester of school as well as other sobering realities of life, and I'm afraid it may be awhile before I get back to this place. It exists like some forgotten forest in my mind, a secret corner in which to retire with my thoughts or look over an exquisite array of words, stringing them together for my whim and pleasure. Sometimes I find myself in the company of your comments and it truly feels like a friend has come to visit. I hope that's what Tollipop is for you--a place to escape (or make peace with) your sobering realties--somewhere that engages your imagination and allows you to be as you see yourself, a secret corner in which to enjoy your solitude, or perhaps a conversation with strings of words that whisper and glisten in the sun.