In my parallel life (the one in which I sip champagne at a rooftop restaurant and they use one of those crumber thingies between courses and Rufus Wainwright is my BFF), there are some bold fashion choices that I’d give a go; however, in my current life there is little need for. But sometimes those choices get made anyway, and I find myself in line at the pharmacy wearing studded epaulets and the gaunt stares of half a dozen octogenarians.
Something inside drives me to dress like a superhero. Continue reading


