My world has to match. It has to make sense.
Which is probably why Fashion Week, Vogue, and What Not to Wear all give me the hives just thinking about all the patterns arguing with each other.
My own wardrobe is bland by comparison. My favorite color is brown. Well, not literally, but you'd think it if you took a look in my closet. It matches everything (else in there) and I defend my lack of Pop by referring to my color choices as "earthy" instead of "drab." And it's fiscally responsible. If I bought red ballet flats, I would only be able to wear them with like, 3 outfits. How much sense does that make? And yet, it's those little rainbow kisses that The Husband celebrates. He never tires of telling me how good that color looks on me or how nice it is to see me in something other than that damned brown.
It's probably no surprise I wanted to be Punky Brewster when I was growing up. She was who she was and celebrated it every day when she got dressed. And screw you if you didn't like what (the wardrobe people) had decided to dress the character in for that day's episode. She was who I wanted to be.
Reality was who I was.
It's who I am.
Which is why I sometimes find myself struggling as Buttercup grows up into a free-thinking little person with definite opinions on what she will and will not wear. The child has been dressing herself since she was 18 months old, but it was a lot easier when she couldn't see beyond the two pre-planned outfits I was letting her choose between.
Some days, she picks stuff like this...
...and I find myself biting my tongue. Who gives a shit if the pink socks should be white? Or if I would never have paired those leggings with those shoes?
Her world doesn't have to match.
And it still makes perfect sense to her.