Sweater (Gap - so old, similar here and here), Skirt (H&M, similar here and here), Shoes (Nine West, similar here). Necklace (Dogeared), Ring (Blanca Monroz Gomez via Of a Kind)
I hung up my pointe shoes (along with my tap shoes, and all other dance-related accoutrements and abilities) after I graduated high school—DEAR GOD THAT WAS ALREADY 10 YEARS AGO—in the way that a really devoted Bob Ross School of Painting disciple might hang up their palette of happily mixed hues and lazily buttoned chambray shirt; that is to say, unceremoniously, but not without longing or reverence. And since then, my encounters with barres and leotards and the like have been few and far between, and usually end with my tears and clenched fists and many fervent assertions about what I used to be able to do.
But my pangs of nostalgic yearning for days of balletic agility gone by, and the subsequent pain that follows, mean that I still like (read: need) to pretend that I'm a ballerina. Such is the genesis of this particular outfit, which also may or may not be—ok, definitely is—born out of a subconscious quotation of this outfit (see: 0:43 seconds).
Maybe I grand allegro'd my way to the train station in this outfit, and maybe I arabesque'd in the ladies restroom at my office when no one was looking, and maybe it felt fucking GREAT???? Don't worry about it.
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