I suppose one day you'll see all of me. But, for now, here is an X-Ray image of my teeth (no, they aren't black---I didn't live in England THAT long!) I'm forcing a big old smile that does not come naturally to me. The reason I took this image with this filter on is because at the end of the day, underneath it all, a smile can really just be a facade and a straight face can be a very happy person but one caught in their thoughts. I dunno--a man once told me I'd be attractive if I'd smile more. Here's my story...

Dear Ether,

I was once told by a man that I would be much more attractive if I smiled more.  I wondered, “Did that stop people from approaching me because I looked like a sourpuss?”  When I catch my reflection in a store window or a mirror, I definitely look unapproachable.  My head is often lowered, my cheeks sucked in giving my lips a down-turned pout and sunglasses usually shade my eyes.

I was never the girl who was bought drinks at bars or was approached on streets.  I never got asked out on dates or was flirted with in public.  And I didn’t get it.  I know you guys don’t know what I look like, but you know I’m honest, and I will try and be humble, but I’m not bad looking.  And when I put myself together, I actually look quite nice.  So when I saw girls who I thought were less attractive, I never knew why I wasn’t getting any attention.

You know, some people have a great smile.  Their eyes crinkle beautifully, their teeth glimmer like ivory piano keys that explode in their mouths welcoming you to their face.  Their lips are full and their grin just makes everything more inviting.  When I smile, I lose my upper lip, my eyes almost disappear and it looks like I’m missing my back teeth because my lip casts a shadow over the last few molars.  I just don’t have a pretty smile.

When I had braces, I learned to smile with my mouth shut.  An almost pucker-like smirk.  I look back on these photos and see how dreadful I appear.  My chin juts out, lines gather around my nose and mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for the Cheshire Cat.

After this man suggested this about my appearance, I tried to take heed of his advice.  I actually felt the atrophied muscles in that region struggle and shake trying to hold the pose.  I felt stupid and foolish. After a few tries I gave up and my face relaxed back into its straight-lined position. The thing is, I don’t NOT smile, I just don’t have that kind of cheerful visage.

I will tell you one thing—(and it’s my surprise)—when I laugh—I give it everything I’ve got.  THAT’S when my teeth come out and sparkle and when my eyes shine and you see my dimples.  So, maybe the secret is you’ve got to make me crack-up.  And when you do, maybe I’m really damned beautiful.  So though I’m not on show every minute, what makes me special is that I come out from the woodwork and glitter every once in awhile.  And it’s the people who matter that get to see the really attractive me.  It’s the people who take the time to invest and not just enjoy the ongoing music of the large piano key teeth but maybe some of the flat notes hidden by my skinny excuse for lips.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I am a soldier when I shop. I do it for the country that is One of 365. I have to make sure this "governing-body" looks damned good and I can't have ANYONE get in my way.

Dear Ether,

When I shop, I become a fierce, focused creature who does not like to be disturbed by ANYONE.  When a friend asks me if I’d like to go shopping, I always try to weasel out of it.  I don’t want to be interrupted with questions about HER dress or what I think about how HER shoes look on HER feet.  I need to focus on the sale racks, sizes—my eyes rapidly scanning for deals without any deterrent.

I love shopping.  There are many women who detest it and only go when they have to find an outfit for an occasion.  I adore just heading out and perusing the boutiques seeing what I can drool over and store in my mind for when the sales come.  I love the air-conditioned rooms, the music the they play, the pang in my heart when I see a tag with a red slash through it.  I am a hunter and clothes are my prey.

I wouldn't make a badge or a bumper-sticker out of this, but it sure is my mantra

I have an excessive amount of clothing.  It’s beyond ridiculous.  I’m actually pretty proud that through the mounds of cloth I don’t have anything I truly regret.  I mean, of course there are the pieces of crap you buy from Primark that you wish you maybe should have saved the 5 quid on for a coffee, or you realize you just bought ANOTHER black top.  But for the most part, I’ve done decently well.  Nothing too horrible.  I’ve had regrets.  I bought a Mulberry bag on sale in London that was 250 quid reduced from 500 and it sits smushed in a corner never used.  It’s a little small and just a bit traditional for me.  Would I like the money back, of course!  But, no one would look at it and say, “What the hell were you thinking?”  I’m always good about making sure to buy clothes that are made of lovely fabrics (I could ADORE a piece, but if  it’s made of polyester or some shit I can’t pronounce—I’m done).  I hate when from a distance you see a garment that’s lovely, and then you get close for further inspection and see it’s possibly flammable—oh, the horror!

English gent is an excellent shopping partner. He is the ONE person who I can tolerate to take with me.  In fact, he is quite an asset being a fashionista himself (though when we see a mirror we tend to fight over it in a shop). He gives honest advice on how things look on me.  He also knows the trends and gives ace investment premonitions.  He never tires, he’ll wait patiently while I scour the racks and he appreciates clothing as much as I do (he is so in love with fashion that he has been known to buy something, change out of what he is wearing, and walk out of the store donning his new outfit!).

My style icons are a mix of Ms. Paltrow, the perfect Ms. Sienna and legendary Kate Moss, of course.  When I go out, I try to conjure these women.  I’m lucky with my figure that I can pull some of the looks off these ladies can (I’m not as tall as Gwyneth nor as flat-chested, I’m not as leggy or skinny as Sienna or Kate) but I can make their looks happen if I try and do get compliments which make my day (because if ONLY they new how much I paid for them—STEALS!).

(This is for you gentleman who read my blog…I thought I’d throw you some eye-candy)

Yep, this is how we ladies feel when we are donning something sexy. Or at least, I do. What an entrance!

My dream is to walk into Burberry and buy some of their Prorsum goodies, hit Chanel and buy a pochette bag, saunter into Temperley and buy a whimsical dress made of silk and air, and have no credit card limit.  Oh, yes, there are millions of other designers who I’d kill to wear.  But honey, put me on a stranded island with these 3, and I’d make the natives catwalk cuties in no time.

I have kept every item of clothing I have ever bought.  They are stored in boxes throughout my folks house.  I refuse to give anything away.  I believe one day something might come back or if I have a daughter she’d kill me for giving it away (yes, I think there is hope for the overall and the multi-colored high-top).  Clothes, to me, have always been my hobby.  Some people love thimbles, spoons, Rembrandts.  I love Miu Miu or a great pair of jeans.  And when I go out looking spiffy, there’s no better feeling in the world.

But………just don’t fuck with me while I’m getting my outfit together.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

PS: As it is the recession…………