This morning I was in the supermarket at the checkout, paying for my goods. While I waited for my card to be approved, I gazed around the room where everybody was busily engaged with what seemed so important at the moment. Then, just as it happens in a film, everything stopped and this sexy, well dressed woman glides into the supermarket. For the staff at that busy Tesco, she could be just another regular costumer and I suppose nobody else noticed, but I did.
My gaze followed her around as she moved so graciously from aisle to aisle. (Before you have a second thought, no, I’m not a lesbian!) . That woman caught my attention only because she reminded me of how I used to be: confident, elegant, striking – in the words of my dear husband.
Instantly, I had a quick look at what I was wearing. Oh boy! I didn’t like what I saw.
Normally I try to look my best, even if I’m wearing a boring pair of trousers and t-shirt , I try to embellish it somehow, with a scarf or a piece of jewellery, but this morning, after a disrupted night sleep, I didn’t even know how I made my way there, let alone dressing up in style.
I left the supermarket but I couldn’t stop thinking about what our clothes can say about us. And if it is true that our clothes represent the way we are, I’d better start an operation rescue now . My clothes might be boring, but I want to believe that I’m not.
So who am I, after all?
I know there are at least three women inside me. What I don’t know is how I’m going to address my emotions so each of these women can shine without over shadowing the others.
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