For those early readers who followed my every back brace constrained move in the styling my back brace days, you’ll remember with great fondness my miracle doctor. Several of you actually suggested at the time that I date said doctor, with whom I always had a good (borderline flirty) rapport. I scoffed at such suggestions because it seemed too much like mixing business with pleasure. I mean, I needed him to fix my back. Plus, on the awkward side, this guy has seen me in a hospital gown, several times. He saw me in tears more than once too. He inserted really sharp needles into my back. And I’m pretty sure that in doing so, he’s already seen me at least partially naked. Not to mention this is the very doctor who made me wear a back brace for more than two months.
Almost a year has gone by since I’ve had an appointment with him. Randomly, we recently connected on LinkedIn. We had a little email exchange about whether or not I should purchase a Living Social coupon for flying trapeze lessons. (He advised not.) I sensed the same energy that we had in the examination room coming through over our emails. I started thinking about how it’s Month of Chelsea and one of my goals is to take more risks. I just published a short story. How hard could it be to ask out the back doctor?
So I did.
I received an email back from him a few days later. Of course a divorced doctor under 40 who doesn’t live with his mother just started seeing someone. I totally get it. You snooze, you lose in this town. That isn’t to say that I’m not still a tinge disappointed. But rather than be sad or feel rejected, I’m proud of myself for going after what I want instead of waiting around for someone else to give it to me.
That, my friends, is what Month of Chelsea is all about.
One year ago today, as I sat in my office feeling sorry for myself over my impending doom (i.e. the approaching date of my back procedure followed by two-to-three months of fashion confinement in a back brace) I decided I needed to channel my angst into something positive, creative and reflective of me. Facebook status updates didn’t seem long enough or to have enough reach. I was still scared of Twitter. Even a blog initially did not seem like a good fit. (Let’s be honest, I am not the most computer literate person. I still can’t figure out how to paste the code to Google Analytics onto my “page” so that I can see who cyber-stalks me.) But then I found a platform I could manage, and Styling My Back Brace was born.
I originally envisioned it as a way to visually portray the fashion limits and challenges posed by the brace I dubbed Beatrix. I would post photos of daily outfits and seek advice on how to style my brace better. Well, it didn’t take long for the outfit of the day component to prove a bust. Aside from not having an in-house photographer, for those first six weeks, I rarely got out of yoga pants. The blog evolved into a way to share my trials and tribulations, my observations and progress. The writing came surprisingly easily.
Styling My Back Brace allowed me to connect with people remotely because I couldn’t travel. Hell, I couldn’t even ride in a car for short trips out of fear a traffic jam would push me over my sit allowance. (15 minutes every three hours, so I had to time my drives to the city carefully.) Standing on the metro was permitted but as we all know too well, the train is not guaranteed to be the smoothest ride and can be uncomfortably crowded at the oddest of times. Even once I grew stronger and more confident in my modes of transportation, meetings had to occur some place where I could stand, so most often I met people in a bar.
Yes, I had a lot of lunch meetings standing at the bar. Betsy at Bistro Bis (a manageable walk from my office) still remembers what I like to eat, and more importantly, drink.
As my back healed and I shed the brace, I made the decision to keep writing under a different blog name. Even now, I still don’t go so far as to call myself a blogger. I think exactly three people have referred to me as such. Two of those people were kind enough to call me a fashion blogger, and one of my work friends called me a mommy blogger (he’s a daddy, of course). I’m neither one or the other, nor do I believe I write enough to deserve a blogger moniker. I’m just a woman who likes to occasionally chronicle her life (or wardrobe) for the world to read (or see). Along the way, I hope to entertain and every once in awhile, to inspire.