I feel pretty.
Such a simple statement, but one I don't say as often as I probably should. The question of why I don't say it that often isn't something I really want to look at right now, so I'll just look at what prompted this simple, yet powerful statement.
It shouldn't be the way I'm dressed right now. Plaid pajama bottoms that sit low on the hips I'm starting to fall in love with; white tank top that might be a size too big, complete with bra straps and my tattoo hangin' out; my hair is down.
My curly, slightly tangled, getting-longer-by-the-day-if-really-slowly hair is down around my shoulders. Mostly for this reason do I feel pretty. Pretty enough to have it sort of pervade everything at the moment, make me slightly unreasonably happy (happy enough to look up music from roughly 10-15 years ago, and sing with it) and not give a damn who hears. That kind of happy.
It's been a bit of a rough week - academically and I, for the first time in my rather short journalistic career, had some backlash from an article of mine - and I'm not planning on really going out this weekend. Instead, right here right now, I feel happy. And pretty.
And I can't figure out, for me, which is the better of the two to be feeling.
Starbucks...Knitting...What more could a girl ask for?