All posts filed under: style

Am I Really A Blogger If I Wear Sweatpants All The Time?

Yes, am I? Begs the question, eh?   There used to be a time when I would get dressed up every day.  Perhaps less of dressed to the nines, and more of dressed for work at the PR agency where I led a 7-member team.  So yes, I’d wake up by 6am.  Feed Eve (told you it was a while ago), make sure she had everything ready and the maid was duly briefed on what to cook for the day.  Shower, curl my hair, apply some make-up (which, at the time, was blusher, blue eyeliner as well as blue mascara, and pink lipstick, cringe).  Try on one outfit.  Take it off.  Try on yet another.  Still not right, pull on something else. Arrrgh! Nothing worked, and by now, there are piles of clothes strewn all over the floor. A frantic glance at my cellphone tells me it’s past 8:30, I’m still traipsing around in my undies, and if I don’t get dressed right that moment, I’m going to be royally late for work.  To provide …

The Fab 40s Say Yeehaw, Y’All

Influencing the Influencer. What does that even mean?   Today, I want to talk about who influences the influencers. And if those influences we’re letting in are positive. Or not. Such a fabulously fascinating topic.  Here we are, going on about how much we care for our readers (some of whom we call friends) and, consequently, the due diligence we conduct upon every product and service showcased on our social media platforms.  And yet we ourselves often neglect to housekeep what (or who) influences us in turn. A U D I T W H O A N D W H A T S P E A K S T O U S What we allow into our ears.  Into our minds and hearts and spirits.  Choosing who (or what) has the authority to capture our attention and affect it.  Being selective about the people or the things which have the power to make us feel relevant. Of course, the fact that many most of us are surrounded by social media and the powerful imagery it …

The Fab 40s Go Goth

Aka the “It’s Not You, It’s Me” post.  Once upon a time in Houston, Sheela got pissed with WordPress.  And the damn phone because it kept dinging with alerts.  Merrily.  Repeatedly.  All the damn time.  Driving her up the (proverbial) wall. And that isn’t even the crux of today’s post.  Just a wee digression of aggression.  I love a good pun, I love a bad one even more GRIN hello my friends, thank you for stopping by today.  I’m going off on a new look and feel (or rather, approach) to blogging.  It’s subtle though so I am wondering if you see it. This time last week, I was at FierceCon2018. Catherine’s baby.  A haven wherein women (and a few men) congregated to share and motivate.  To connect.  Inspire and be inspired.  To find a sister.  Or tribe.  Both. Give me a little time to gather my thoughts, and I will tell you ALL about it.  What I was privileged to hear.  The stories told by truly brave souls.  Things I’ve become aware of ever …

The Fab 40s Put On Plaid

It’s not just black and white. It’s practically everything in between.   I don’t recall what led to it precisely but the other day, someone asked whether I viewed the world in black and white.  What an immensely interesting question.  Particularly given the timing, and current state of things.  Without rehashing what’s been playing out in my life of late (you can read about it here and here), it’s safe to say that change has been dominating the scene.  Rather like a zephyr sweeping across the horizon, creating patterns in the landscape, swiftly moving from side to side, and everything in between. And that is why my response was that I’ve gone from viewing the world in greyscale (with certain moments in subtle shades, like a two-colour process) to now experiencing everything in full technicolour wonder. I T’ S E X H I L A R A T I N G And it’s been in the simplest of things too. Consuming garlic, for one.  Or working out at the oddest of hours whether it’s because …

23,040 Minutes

23,040 minutes. Or, if you prefer, 384 hours.   That’s precisely how long I’ve been staying at Camden Holly Springs.  The place I’ve called home since 22nd August.  Seems so odd to say that.  As is doing things by myself.  Normal, everyday things such as taking out the trash.  Pumping gas into the car, going to the car wash too.  Cooking for one (I still keep cooking far too much but I’ll get the portions right eventually, I know it).  Getting acquainted with a washer and dryer that aren’t Samsung red boom boxes. Realising that I can decorate things however I please (hence the red couch, moo moo cube, tray tables, bedroom furniture, and night lamps).  Yes, in case it wasn’t already apparent, I’m going with black, red and white with touches of grey/chrome 🙂 I shan’t lie, it’s going to take a while to get accustomed to these (shall we call them) adjustments but I know they’re part of the process in this journey towards my new norm.  And I look forward to embracing …

The Fab 40s Are All Laced-Up

Racy, lacy, dicey. Hey, that even rhymed.   As a few of you already know, a new chapter in my life has begun. Some time ago, I ended my 16 year relationship with Pierluigi.  There was no infidelity.  No, nothing of the sort.  I walked away after almost two decades together because I had lost myself.  I had spent so much time being mother, wife, colleague that Sheela had completely disappeared.  I had no purpose.  I felt absorbed.  Missing.  Lacking.  Gone. I H A D B E C O M E I N V I S I B L E Lest anyone casts that first stone, let me preface it by saying that I have absolutely no regrets in taking on those three roles.  I love Eve more than life itself, and I wanted to be the sort of parent who was always there.  Always present in as many ways as possible.  Her needs came before mine, and they always will. Being a wife to Pierluigi was an all-consuming affair, and I was alright with …

The Fab 40s In Their Cutoffs

Oh yes, we absolutely can. Wear shorts, that is.   I begin my post with a sense of utter outrage. In the process of conducting due diligence and research to write this, I came across multitudes of so-called style experts dishing out the most ridiculous of counsel to women on whether cutoffs (or the entire spectrum of shorts, for that matter) were age-appropriate. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d just taken my Bystolic (and that I’m physically drained from a very exhausting weekend of work + play, with the last vestiges of jet lag thrown in for good measure), I suspect I’d have suffered a fit right then and there.  Or, at the very least, hurled verbal abuses at said culprits vis-à-vis the sanctity of my home office which would, in truth, serve no higher purpose save to leave me with the cringey task of wiping smatterings of spit from my laptop screen. O U T R A G E D , I T E L L Y O U First of all, …

The Girls

Breasts. Tits. Boobs. Whatever you may call them.   Yes, however you may refer to them, my breasts are my most significant area of body insecurity.  Ever so quintessentially clichéd, I’m fully aware.  Allow me to clarify.  Yes, the insecurity pertains to size but perhaps not quite in the way you think.  I’ve never once desired to be a cup I am not.  To provide some provenance, pre-Eve, I was a 34B.  Right after having Eve, I stayed 34D for a long time.  Then I went to being a 36B, and now, I’m at 34AA.  Clearly, lingerie stores have had me to singularly support their existence these past few years, what with all that yo-yo movements of my cleavage (you’re welcomed). So, my bone of contention is that I do not crave more but I yearn to regain what I’ve lost through the years of weight fluctuations and intensive workouts.  I want to be a 34B again. No more, no less. I’ll be the very first one to admit that it IS a lot easier …

What Makes You, You?

Ya, boo. What makes you, you?   A simple prompt from the awesome Jodie, about the versatility of denim, gave rise to the question of what makes you, you.  Is it your external self with its specific composition of water, protein, connective tissue, fats, bones, carbohydrates and DNA?  Or, conversely, is it how that external facade is packaged namely dress style, trimmings (body art, ink, etc), hair colour? Or, as a third alternative. is it how we think and behave that dictates and makes us who we are?  Our moral guidelines, our moral code?  Our beliefs? Could it be all of the above? I rather think so. After all, at the end of the day, our physical selves take instructions from our minds, our emotions.  How we feel manifests itself into how we conduct ourselves, how we appear in the eyes of the world. As I explain myself, I am also reminded of an impromptu conversation with a friend, Michael, just a fortnight ago.  This oh so articulate and creative friend revealed how he’d often …

The Fab 40s Make A Statement

Creating an impression. One that hits home.   I doubt I’d be distorting facts when I put forth that we’ve all done something to send a message at least once in our lives, if not countless times. Making a statement could be as rudimentary as wearing black lipstick to rebel against the powers that be, or something far more significant, more meaningful such as taking a stand against Trump.  Joining the #MeToo movement.  Going public with your sexual orientation.  Articulating an opinion about a topic near and dear to you.  Participating in a rally. In one way or another, we all make statements.  And, naturally, the way we dress is perhaps the most eloquent, versatile and personal weapon in our arsenal to send a message.  Fashion has the innate ability to influence politics, culture, life, and that is not an exaggerated claim. F A S H I O N I S A W E A P O N We outfit ourselves to match our views and beliefs about anything and everything pertinent, be it consciously …