I prayed for flats on Friday. My husband knows I typically reach for jeans and sneakers or even glorified sweatpants (read: joggers) if I can get away with it at work. But after a week teetering around in heels, I figured a Friday reprieve was unlikely. Again, I underestimated his style savvy. He had been saving a favorite sweatshirt of mine (a punny Bay Area novelty pullover) that was, in his words, "perfect for casual Friday because it's still, like, cool enough to show that you didn't just wear what you wore to SoulCycle." As for what to wear with it, he selected ripped black skinnies, my trusty tote, and my Isabel Marant sneakers. They had also been forgotten in my closet as they lost favor with the style crowd, replaced by Stan Smiths and everyday Nikes; unbeknownst to me, Thomas was hoping for their comeback.
I didn't hate my Friday outfit, but it didn't totally feel like me. That's pretty much how I felt the entire week, like I was masquerading as someone else — even in my own clothes.
