Glow.

Someone asked me the other day about my glow.

Not about the blush I used or the foundation I supposedly had on (I wear neither, save for the occasional douse of mascara), but the glow coming from within.

It was a glow I’d been feeling for a couple of days now. This bursting happiness, the kind of over-the-moon sensation which I can only describe as pure joy.

Did something exciting happen recently?

Is there a new boy in your life? they asked.

In an ironic turn of events, both an exciting thing happened and there was a boy was involved, though it wasn’t the addition of the guy that was so exciting, but the removal of him from my life.

Remember that boy I sent that letter to once upon a time? That letter where I declared my feelings for him, which was acknowledged with a curt “I got your package thank youuu” ?

In a larger than life episode of the soap opera that seems to be my dating life, it recently came to my attention that my letter had never been read.

I know.

I KNOW.

It was my sister’s telling of an episode of Crazy Ex Girlfriend that prompted me to reach out to him. In the episode, one of the characters writes a love letter to her high school sweetheart that gets trapped in his Varsity jacket for ten years. He discovers it at a high school reunion, but by then it’s too late. He’s now a priest, and therefore…. celibate.

This inspired me to confront him about my letter (not that he’s becoming a priest, but you never know!), after spending the last three months mourning over the fact that I had been rejected without word.

And HE NEVER READ IT.

In a brief moment of hope, I imagined him reading it as soon as he got home, then calling me back to confess his reciprocation of feelings.

Of course, it’s not like the movies (unless it’s a ridiculous rom com), and instead, he made me wait a week before we could talk because it was finals week and he was “too busy.”

(I should’ve known then it was a big red flag)

Forgiving his selfish self, I allowed it, only to get in bed with another problem: arranging a call.

Frustrated at our conflicting schedules, I finally just asked him to be honest, as I was driving myself mad waiting to hear back about my letter.

I never heard back.

Hours went by. The night passed, which was spent laying on a tear soaked pillow from one of the worst breakdowns I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I finally realized that he never had any intention of being honest with me. He had always lacked the emotional maturity to deal with sensitive topics, and I was an especially sensitive and emotional situation.

I woke up the next morning, to a phone devoid of messages, and without thinking twice, I blocked his number, a move I should’ve made a long time ago.

It had been three years. Three years filled with dozens of sad journal entries confessing my heartache whenever he didn’t respond promptly or didn’t give me what I needed out of our “relationship” and today, I finally had the courage to do what needed to be done.

And since that day? Freedom.

I feel so. Damn. Good.

I thought there would be months of emotional breakdowns and guttural feelings of suffocating sorrow popping up whenever there were reminders of him; but, in all honesty, I had already gone through all of these feelings since I first started talking to him three years ago. So when I did finally remove that toxicity from my life, I instead felt released from all that pain and confusion about what “we” were. I felt relief to be free of something that had been hurting me for so long.

I even feel invigorated. Having the courage to withdraw contact from the man who for so long I relied on for validation and attention resulted in a powerful and more confident me. I felt back in control of my life, and brave for declaring that I deserved better than to be ignored. I was tired of hearing excuses from him, tired of the temptation to get back in touch, and I was free of the unhealthy wondering if there was something more between us. I finally saw what I was worth, and he wasn’t worthy.

He has no way of ever contacting me again and I have no way of knowing if he ever attempts to contact me again and knowing that is a weight off my shoulders.

It was a weight that left me with this powerful glow.

I picked my photo shoot spot in a field of fireweed this week, for fireweed is symbolic when it comes to destruction and the growth that comes afterword.

According to the US Forest Service, “… the name fireweed stems from its ability to colonize areas burned by fire rapidly… bringing color to an otherwise grim landscape.”

In areas besieged by destruction, there comes forth this brilliant “showy” (and that’s a real description straight from the Forest Service) wildflower, and that really resonated with me.

Sometimes in life, we gotta burn a little in order for our true colors to shine through. We have to break down in order to break through.

And the thing that comes after? A colorful showy wildflower that holds a certain…

Glow.

Her Story.

Brunch shift at Addie Camp: also known as the guaranteed one day a week I have the opportunity to dress up. I have a closet (which is more like a store) full of delightful treasures, most of them old (and therefore used), and because my job at Brew requires a uniform of denim shirt and work pants, there are very few occasions left for me to wear them.

Addie Camp is old, over 104 years old, and so the combination of getting to dress up and wear some of my vintage treats makes me a very happy woman.

So I’m working brunch the other day, and a recurring customer asks me if the dress I had on that day was new.

“New, but old,” I responded, the most polite way to explain that though the dress was new to my closet, it was old and rich in history.

Clocking in at nearly sixty years old, it was an old Hawaiian dress I picked up in San Francisco during my short (but very rewarding) stint working at Relic Vintage (only the BEST vintage store in all of San Francisco, or maybe the whole world).

It wasn’t just a dress I picked up though.

This little number had a far more exciting tale woven between her floral folds.

See, how I came about this dress is a funny story, a story that only adds to her life’s story since her birth in the early ‘60’s.

It was last year, mid May. I was living in Walnut Creek at the time, travelling to San Francisco for my part time job at Relic. The commute in total took me four hours: two there, and two back. It also included nearly 7 miles of walking.

Not wanting to soil my vintage delicacies, and not looking forward to the idea of being sweaty in my nice clothes, I packed them in my gym bag and wore my workout clothes during the strenuous commute up those iconic San Francisco streets.

I also traveled with my coffee mug, which I made the mistake of carrying in that same bag.

You can put two and two together.

I arrived at Relic to find that though my bag smelled nicely of fresh ground french press, my clothes had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of said spillage.

Allllllll over my vintage ensemble: big fat wet coffee stains.

Luckily, I worked at a vintage clothing store, so I had a plethora of options to chose from, including a pile of items I had set aside to try on.

In this pile was the Hawaiian dress that just so happened to match the accessories and shoes I had brought for my (now stained) outfit.

It fit like a glove and I can say with certainty that at that time, I needed it.

May have been the only time in my life I needed a dress!

One more story for this little dress’ history.

Or should I say, “herstory?”

See, part of why I love old things, especially clothing, is being part of the continuation of this garment’s story. Old clothes have personality, they’ve been through decades of time and there’s no telling what they went through before they’ve landed in my possession.

Aside from the fact that they’re also made better, more stylish, and one of a kind, they’re a piece of history, and I always look forward to opportunities where I can add my own chapter, in a new decade.

It’s also about saving the life of the dress, from misfortunes such as the landfill, or moth damage from being locked in a closet. It’s reusing and recycling.

In this dress’s particular story, I saved her, but ironically, she also saved me.