I have nice clothes — I’ve made sure of that. But full disclosure: I don’t live in an apartment, and it’s not shitty, just too big to furnish alone. Because of this, the house, which I share with 3 other people, tends towards threadbare rather than objectively ugly. No one person is willing to make the investments necessary to transform the house in a meaningful way. This includes books to fill the bookshelf, art for the walls or a nice rug to tie it together.
A single room or a crisp button-down are much easier to manage, but just managing isn’t really an option any more. I’m not trying to be a snob, and these are entirely self-imposed expectations, but the truth is the older you get, the fewer excuses you can make for why you don’t have nice shit. All the aspects of your life have to start touching sides; your new shoes can’t come at the expense of clean sheets or health insurance, and if you don’t know what a ramekin is, you need to find out and quickly.
I’m getting used to wanting more and turning a discerning eye over more than just my outfits, and it feels good — and it’s overdue. And while I do welcome the person I am turning into, I won’t pretend like I didn’t spend this past Saturday buying sneakers instead of buying new tyres. A “fuck it, we ball” move typical for the old me and a pattern of behaviour that probably should become less frequent as I become the older me. I’ll have to wait and see.
