A look into my closet reveals a mishmash of styles. Vestiges of a bookselling life (cute but hardy clothing that withstood kneeling on concrete floors to fix computers, hugging piles of books to my chest when shelving, and cleaning bathrooms) hang next to party dresses and everyday outfits ranging from peasant to Patagonia. Despite an effort to simplify, I’m no Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg, with one look for most occasions. I like color, textures, options.

Photographs from my timeline reveal a parade of fashions. I’ve been preppy, professional, hippie, outdoorsy, bohemian, nerdy, femme, and hipster. The constants are a pretty shoe with a heel, short boots with short skirts, jean jackets, poet shirts, beautiful scarves, and jeans. When I find something I like, I wear it till it’s worn through. If I love it, I try to buy another immediately, especially when it comes to pants. More on that later.

Before adolescence, I was very athletic and taller than most boys my age. I wasn’t a bruiser, but I’m not bragging when I say I was one of the first picked when classmates called out who they wanted on their team. My sartorial style was utilitarian and unisex. Barely aware of my gender during my single digits, I fully expected to grow male genitalia, and dressed with that in mind. (I was raised Catholic and clueless about my sexual anatomy; when I got my first period, I thought I was dying). As I entered puberty, I slimmed down and reassessed my wardrobe, such as it was. I was newly conscious of the male gaze and the scrutiny of female peers. I didn’t quite throw off the unisex look. Parented by folks who wouldn’t have endorsed anything revealing or clingy, I wore preppy clothing through highschool: chinos, painter’s pants, fatigues, and jeans paired with button down tops, sweaters, and turtlenecks.

When I left home for college and graduate school, I revelled in Indian gauze shirts, Laura Ashley skirts, club wear (t-shirt dresses, fishnets, and pumps), and a cowboy ensemble of boots, jeans, jean jacket, and hat. I did a complete about face when I moved to a farm in western North Carolina and stopped just short of survivalist, cloaking myself in army surplus.

My experiments with fashion reflected my journey getting comfortable with my body and the persona I wanted to project. When I was a young teen, I remember helping myself to a slice of chocolate cake and sitting next to my nana. She seemed alarmed at the size of the piece and asked, “Is that all for you?” Then she looked me over and declared I had breeder’s hips. Coming from an Irish woman with five children, this was not necessarily an insult, but she’d pretty much said I had a big, wide ass. Later, I looked at my body in the mirror. Was my bottom big? I’d never thought so, but it was certainly not small. I eventually shrugged off her comments as she was obsessive about weight and outspoken on the subject. Still, I’ve always worked out--these days it’s jogging and pilates-- to keep my bottom squarely, or roundly, in “medium” range.

A digression on sizing: it can be so random, depending on how a designer accounts for women’s curves, waistlines, torso, and leg lengths. A medium pair of pants by one designer can look like ever-living hell on me, pulled on with a heave-ho, flattening my bottom, pinching my waist and looking sad and desperate. Or perhaps that was my expression in the dressing room mirror?  A medium from another designer might fit nicely around the bottom, but be way too roomy at the waist. For every ten pairs I try on, and I’m not exaggerating, maybe one will be “okay.” It often takes trying on dozens to find something flattering. When I do find flattering, I buy two pairs. Or more. I confess to owning three identical pairs of black Patagonia pants that got me through years of bookselling and travel.

Panty sizing is even more confounding, but I’ve found two brands that work and I’m as loyal to them as some people are to their cigarettes. My husband Jon, bless him, knows my preference for Victoria’s Secret, and visited the local shop to purchase several “Pink” panties for Valentine’s Day. They were adorable. And obviously made for teenage girls, size zero-- the market for Victoria’s Secret’s Pink line. I brought them back and purchased larger ones, but will FOREVER appreciate that Jon held the tiny Pink ones up and thought they would look great on me.

At this point, I only choose clothing that brings me joy, feels good against my skin, and brightens my appearance. I buy less and purge more, knowing that I reach for the same few items every season, while a pile of clothes sits folded, never worn, eventually making its way to Goodwill or a clothing swap. When I need a new dress or blouse, I go outlet shopping with a dear friend who has become my defacto personal shopper; she’s so brilliant, almost uncanny, at finding items that look great on me. And she’s freed me from the shackles shopping puts on my mood, and that’s a big deal.

Is my personal style still evolving? Yes, and I think it always will. I’m not so old or set in my ways that I won’t try something different. At the same time, I’m wiser and more confident in myself and my body that I won’t wear something that doesn’t work, even if it’s “in fashion.” I’ve recently settled into a certain style, a blend of athleisure and Eileen Fisher, that I find comfortable, feminine, and lovely. It’s perfect for my work-at-home life, with occasional forays into town for book club, game night, and writers group.  It feels more me, and for now, I’m sticking with it.