My co-worker has a mug that reads “Baditude.” The other day it shattered on the floor and fittingly, some choice expletives were expressed. If a coffee mug could sum up my feelings while wearing this outfit, it would be Baditude. The skirt might be made of lace but that doesn’t mean this outfit doesn’t have edge. I like mixing different vibes in outfits. The result is usually a somewhat unexpected look that works. Don’t get my wrong, being loving and kind to those you meet is truly a fine thing, but sometimes caring a little bit less about what people think about you can be very therapeutic. At a very young age, people began calling me “nice.” I played with my Cabbage Patch dolls, got good grades, didn’t go to the fields where high school keg parties took place. I played the violin, came home at curfew and was voted to Prom Court. I spent a lot of time trying to please everyone, trying to be nice. I let people’s words penetrate into my core and define me, and at times, I have paid a heavy price. It has taken me years to reclaim this word. “Nice” doesn’t mean doing what others want at the cost of running myself ragged. “Nice” doesn’t mean putting my opinions or needs after other people’s. “Nice” doesn’t mean showing up to a party with a happy attitude when really you are feeling sad and need to be held or listened to. Being nice is a positive quality, but only if you apply it to yourself first.
Yours from the North,
Image by Bernadette Pollard