A few weeks ago I did something so mortifying that I needed to push it to the far recesses of my mind – addressing it would require wading through the thick of the shame. My husband and I had gone out for an evening walk, and like any (in)sane person would, I dressed up for the occasion, as I am wont to do. If we've not been introduced before, I'm a bit of a fashion enthusiast, and so I put together a look composed of a quilted white sleeveless top and a pink, red, orange and beige-gold swirl of a long A-line skirt, a summertime sorbet palette. Both the top and the skirt were by Chanel from the early 2000s. Colloquially speaking, both pieces were a score, the stuff of a thrifter's dream, and after a particularly difficult week, putting on my armor served as a reminder to me of the good parts of myself, of the worthy parts, the ones I often neglect to see or forget to find.