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Flying used to be something of a luxury, I’ve heard, but these days it’s more of a cattle call. I’m not entirely bothered by that; I love that a purchase of a couple hundred dollars can transport me to my parents’ house without the road blindness and frequent potty stops that accompany the 500-mile drive. Even though my two 30-minute flights require a total of six hours’ airport time, I get to read along the way. But the actual process of schlepping luggage around the airport, relocating when your departure gate changes and squeezing into small spaces? It isn’t the best.

I also complain (increasingly, it seems) about the sometimes over-connectedness of social media. But today, I’m grateful for airports and twitter.

While killing time before this morning’s first flight, I posted that I was Florida bound. One of my former interns and dear friends, the incomparable Melody Kitchens, replied to ask if I happened to be flying through ATL on my way to TLH. She was one for two–and she arrived in Atlanta from New York before I left for JAX.

I can’t overstate how great it was to start my week over coffee with this sweet girl. Although we talk regularly (email, Facebook, Twitter, text), I didn’t expect to see her in person for months, at best. Instead, we got 45 minutes or so of catch-up and caffeination time.

Sometimes, the little things are the big things. Merry Christmas.

Around the office I’m known as something of a grinch. I’m normally a cheerful person who is fairly adept at accepting life as it comes (despite my preference for a detailed schedule of what to expect). But when it comes to certain festive events, my inner cynic comes out. I’ve been stuck in lunchtime traffic by one too many parades, and writing holiday stories months in advance can really throw off your inner calendar.

But I still respond with almost childlike joy to Christmas lights. I live near Mountain Brook, which fills the trees of its villages with lights beginning in November. I find the consumer-driven push to begin the gift-giving holidays early as exhausting as anyone else does, but I will never complain if Mountain Brook flips the switch a few days (or even weeks!) early. I often go out of my way to drive through the city at this time of year.

I considered skipping the Christmas tree ritual this year, leaving it to various neighborhoods and friends to bring that extra cheer into my life. I could save a few dollars by not buying a tree, and spend the time allotted to decorating on my book instead. I wouldn’t have to worry about sweeping away bits of Fraser fir for months afterward. Besides, space is at a premium in my 750-square-foot cottage. And how would I transport a tree in my sedan, anyway?

Excuses, excuses.

Tonight I stopped by the Howell Christmas Tree lot nearest my house, selected a larger tree than I intended and crossed my fingers as an employee loaded it into my trunk. “How far are you going?” he asked when it didn’t look like the tree would fit. I would have been willing to risk the half-mile drive with less-than-secure rigging, but with a little manipulation, he was successful.

My Christmas tree and its decor aren’t special, except in the way that all Christmas trees are special. As I pulled out ornament after ornament, I shared their history with my roommate. I’ve got a ceramic dove and a brass baby in a manger that date back to my first Christmas in 1981. A number of cross-stitched ornaments from the ’80s remind me of my Mimi. Penguins were surely a gift from my Aunt Laura, as were a number of other animal ornaments (I particularly like my elephant, giraffe, cow and fish, all of which were Aunt Laura gifts, if my memory serves me). I laughed when I pulled out the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine, and my boyfriend said his mother the librarian would surely appreciate the University of Alabama’s Amelia Gorgas Library hanging in a prominent position.

I attempted to tie the eclectic mix together with crocheted snowflakes I purchased during college. But the truth is, it doesn’t much matter to me whether this tree meets anyone else’s definition of beautiful. Once the Christmas lights are up, I abandon all sense of grinch-dom. For the rest of this month, you’re likely to find me curled up at night and in the early mornings, staring with wonder at a squat, glowing little tree.

Today’s subject line comes from “O Christmas Tree.”

Give me a to-do list and I’m all over it. I love few things like a mission, and so in the past several days I’ve already tackled several items on the “to-buy” list that resulted from my closet cleanse.

Friday night I set out for the outlet mall. This is always my first stop when I’m on a serious shopping mission; I’m a bargain shopper, after all, and stores such as Banana Republic and J. Crew can often fulfill my demands. That proved the case on this trip, as between the two stores I found four pairs of pants, two skinny belts, a shirt and a scarf for $150.

It’s important to me to find deals, even as I try to overhaul my wardrobe. I have a little bit of extra money set aside for this purpose, and I’m trying to maximize it. There are enough clothes in my closet to get me through the winter, so I can take my time filling in the holes.

But a Banana Republic friends-and-family sale motivated me to fill in some of those gaps immediately. All of my purchases at their outlet store were 40 percent off, as was the pair of jeans I ordered online today. (I tried a similar pair at the outlet, but the denim’s wash wasn’t quite right.) Meanwhile, J. Crew Factory offered an additional 40 percent off of clearance items, and I’m eligible for another 15 percent off because I’m a teacher. I also noticed that Anthropologie was running a sale for an additional 20 percent off all clearance dresses this weekend, so I pounced on a couple of those.

All of this shopping has been a bit exhausting. I loved hanging out at the mall when I was a teen, but these days, it isn’t my ideal way to spend time. But I feel good about the purchases I’ve made, and I continue to feel as though I’m taking care of myself in this process.

http://www.pinterest.com/inkstainedlife/things-i-should-wear/

Today’s title comes from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby,” but I suspect you already knew that.

I’ve never been especially into clothes. That was cause for laughter during my (very brief) stint writing fashion stories; I’m good at research and figuring out who can offer the insight I need, but I would show up for these interviews and realize I was woefully under dressed.

Generally speaking, that hasn’t bothered me much. I’m a writer, and I think of myself as a behind-the-scenes person. I’m comfortable being slightly rumpled, and I’m guilty of continuing to wear a favorite shirt long after I spot a hole in it.

So it may surprise those who know me that this week, I hired a style coach.

I’ve worked with Megan LaRussa Chenoweth for about four years, since she took over Birmingham magazine’s style coverage. Several things have stood out in that time: Megan has never made me feel ashamed of anything I’ve worn (and I’ve seen her on days when I know I wasn’t looking my best). She has a knack for encouraging and building people up, which I think is a significant value in a field focused on image. And most importantly, she’s kind.

What made me take the plunge? Well, several things. For one, I’ve gained 25 pounds in the past year or so. It’s a beautiful thing; my weight gain is largely because of muscle, and I’m more confident in my body than ever before. But I didn’t know how to dress for my new shape. Although the weight is distributed fairly evenly through my shoulders, core, hips and thighs, the end result is still a significantly curvier figure than I’m accustomed to. I’ve struggled to figure out what’s appropriate and what’s scandalous.

Similarly, I realized that just because I can still fit into clothes from the juniors department doesn’t mean I should be wearing them. I’m 32 years old, and most of those outfits are meant for teenagers. I’ve worn things to the office and realized later that they were far too casual. I can pass for younger than my age, but I still need to dress for my chapter in life.

And that chapter will soon include a variety of speaking engagements to support my forthcoming book (due out from The History Press in July!). It’s one thing to curl up in a hole-y sweater and too-tight pants when you’re writing. It’s entirely different when you’re trying to present those words to people who might want to pay for them.

This week Megan helped me move toward a more appropriate and defined image with a Southern Femme closet cleanse. (You can learn more about this and her other services on her website.) She asked me to send her my measurements in advance of the appointment so she could determine my body type. After her arrival and a little laughter with my oh-so-helpful cats, we began discussing my shape and what that means for my wardrobe.

Lucky me–apparently I’ve got an hourglass shape, which is fairly easy to dress. However, I can add the illusion of being top- or bottom-heavy by wearing the wrong clothes. Megan talked me through the do’s and don’ts. (Do wear wrap or surplice tops and dresses. Don’t wear crew necks or turtlenecks. That’s a big change, as these nicely highlighted my features when I was 25 pounds lighter. But I had already realized that and eliminated most of them from my wardrobe. Do wear mid-rise jeans. Don’t wear pleated skirts that start the pleats above your hips.)

Megan also asked me a few questions about the image I want to present to people and how I’d describe my style. I aim for a classic but eclectic look, but I often worry that I’m missing that mark. I want my clothes to show that I’m a professional, but also that I don’t take myself too seriously. My colleagues and students would attest to the fact that I’m just as likely to whip out a red pen as I am to strike a yoga pose or dance across the room.

And then, it was time to move toward my closet. Before my appointment, my sister had cautioned me not to let Megan toss out her favorite black dress (which I’m borrowing during Cheryl’s pregnancy). I told her that this isn’t “What Not to Wear.” Megan wouldn’t be disposing of my clothes (and actually, I’ve read that clothes seen on that show are donated, not thrown away), and besides, that dress looks fabulous on me. I’d prefer not to return it to its rightful owner!

Sure enough, as we went through every item in my closet, Megan deemed that dress the epitome of what I should be wearing. The neckline hits below my collarbone, the fabric skims over my silhouette and it hits just above my knee.

Other items weren’t so lucky. I knew I had things to get rid of–don’t we all? But I’ll confess, I was surprised to watch the “to donate” pile grow so rapidly. Megan asked me to pull each item from my closet and explain why it worked or didn’t. In some cases, she’d continue the line of inquiry by asking what I would wear the item with or making suggestions. From there, each piece of clothing was either returned to the closet (approved!), added to my summer stack (approved! but not until the weather warms), dropped in the donation pile, hung up for the consignment pile or added to the try-on pile.

The resulting try-on pile was surprisingly small, 10 items or so. About half of them found their way back into my closet. We then took a quick look at my shoes–almost all of which met Megan’s approval!–before examining the mess we’d made.

The results: Two garbage bags full of my clothes, ready to be sent off to the YWCA’s My Sister’s Closet program. Some lucky girl will also receive one of my old bridesmaids dresses as part of their prom dress giveaway. A stack of hanging clothes is bound for Zoe Consignment and Vintage. I was excited that not only will Megan take all of these clothes to their assigned destinations and bring me the appropriate paperwork, she has also worked with Zoe enough to have a good eye for what they will accept and what they won’t. Some of my clothes would have been hits if I’d taken better care of them, for example. Lesson learned.

And when I turned back to my closet, I realized it was now half empty. Some people may have been freaked out by that. I probably would have been if I didn’t trust Megan so fully–and if I wasn’t such a bargain shopper. Many of the items we discarded cost me $20 or less. The more expensive items found their way into the consignment pile, which made it much easier to let go. And most importantly, I now know that everything in my closet will look good when I put it on.

Of course, this also means it’s time to shop. Megan took notes throughout the closet cleanse, and I’m looking forward to seeing her assessment of what I should add to my wardrobe. The pieces I already own that seem to do the most for me are mostly from Anthropologie and J. Crew–both favorites, but both tend toward the pricy side. I’ve already popped into a few stores and tried things on, but I’m concentrating on making wise decisions both financially and with regard to fashion. For example, I picked up a Banana Republic surplice top yesterday for only $9. I expect to splurge on a few wardrobe staples, but I believe a little patience will allow me to rebuild a wardrobe full of things that make me feel great without putting my finances in danger.

After all, feeling great is why I began this journey. I don’t expect I’ll ever be a fashion plate. I’m not big on trends, and I will probably always prefer to be behind the scenes. But I have long agreed with those who argue you perform better in any arena when you feel good about yourself. That’s exactly why I think it matters what you wear, and why this experience has been worth every cent.

I used to always have music playing around the house. I would fall asleep to music, and in the morning my iPod was set to wake me. This, or some variation thereof, was my routine from the time I was small.

And then something changed. I can’t recall now when, but I suspect it had something to do with a few particularly stressful points in time. Now I mostly exist in the near-silence of a quiet house.

Sure, the cats and I chatter, and I often sing to them. The lamp timer offers a gentle ticking, and I can hear my roommate dipping her spoon into a bowl of soup. The music in my home these days is more often a miles-away train announcing its passage through town or an ambulance’s siren blaring as it travels to the nearby hospital.

This new routine may be unusual for someone whose career has been based in part on music writing. It’s certainly reduces my familiarity with new music, but no matter. I’ve found peace in the quiet.