Dear future hubster,
when the air smells like spring, which means that the stinky trees are in a full blossoming phase, and the grass is freshly cut, and we've been in comfortable two-digit temperatures (Celsius, not Fahrenheit) for days, and, as you probably heard many times, it feels like hope is quietly creeping back to the world, reminding us that the world didn't end this winter, then, dear future hubster, my clothing style alternates between two extremes. I either pull the knee socks and the heels, feeling a sudden urge to display as much bare skin as culturally acceptable and personally still borderline comfortable, with fresh hair colour and meticulously applied make-up; or I run around in teeny tiny denim shorts over awkwardly colourful yoga leggings, glasses and messy hair, like a student living in the library. Which technically I do.
School day-me would barely recognize weekend-me.
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