Even though I wrote that I was going to write my essay and then I came back to my blog again, I actually am writing my essay. But when I was reviewing the assignment sheet and wondering why none of it sounded familiar, I turned it over to see if there was a back side and had the shocking realization that I have become one of those girls that draws clothes all over her notes. I was momentarily revolted at the thought of having done something so un-me.

It brought me back to middle school and the world of the fashion slaves of the time (amongst whom I was not welcome). Whenever I see people doing something like that I automatically think of them as young, like little girls imagining themselves in iconic Cinderella dresses with large busts and small waists and wholeheartedly embracing the feminine cliché. I don't dislike them for it--it can be endearing, at times--but I automatically distance myself from those artists because I want to label myself mature, and because I grew up believing that I would never be one of those girls, the strawberry-ice-cream-eating, gap-wearing kids whose trendy parents raised them to be popular before they knew the difference.

On closer inspection, however, I realized that my drawings don't have that quality. They're simple, modern but not trendy, anatomically correct and somewhat masculine. Then I remembered that I had drawn those sketches as preliminary plans for clothes I've already begun making and marvelled at the wonderful freedom of being able to envision what you want and make it for yourself, rather than relying on someone else to invent your personal style. It makes me feel not just mature but powerful.

Now I have to write an essay about a metaphor in Zora Neale Hurston and I can't stop thinking up my own metaphors instead. But somehow I feel a lot more accomplished after analyzing my own tenor than I would if I had finished the paper.