glamorously average

I feel glamorous usually on Sundays. When I wear colored tights or feel a hair curl around my ear. And I apply just alittle extra eye shadow. Just on Sundays. I feel glamorous when the temple doors open widely and I pass the threshold. Or when I hear the soft click of heels on a hard wood floor. I feel glamorous as I tip toe under city lights walking along snowy sidewalks. 

I like feeling glamorous.

I feel average when I wear my nike tennies to school. When I wear my Carhartt socks pulled up to my knees under my jeans and my blue and white striped -one-dollar-gloves, because it makes me smile inside. I feel average when I wear thrifted clothes. 

Or when I wear my knock-off boots, sweaters, everything.

I feel average when I listen to my Anne of Green Gables book on audio-books while I run. Or when I watch Jane Austen movies, and sigh with disappointment that I can never been one of her characters in her novels. Or when I listen to the Young Women's church music while I study, clean, and cook. 

I feel average most of the time.

And I like feeling average too.