💃 Wear the Thing: Enjoying What You Love Without Explaining Yourself

There are plenty of things I would like to wear, do, or try that I sometimes talk myself out of before I’ve even given them a chance.

Not because I don’t like them.

Usually, it’s because I start wondering what other people will think.

Is it too much? Is it strange? Will people notice? Will they think I’m trying too hard? Maybe I should just wear something more ordinary.

This is one of the reasons I like the idea of wearing the thing. Doing the thing.

Not always the most sensible thing, or the most practical thing, or the thing that would attract the least attention. Just the thing you actually like.

Maybe it’s a colour you love but rarely wear. Maybe it’s a dress that feels a little fancier than the occasion requires, or a suit when that’s not what you usually wear. Maybe it’s a pair of boots that aren’t particularly practical, or a hat that makes you smile every time you put it on.

Or maybe it’s a purple cloak.

There’s something very freeing about deciding that you like something and leaving it at that.

I think we spend a lot of time imagining other people’s opinions. We picture someone looking at us and deciding we’re ridiculous, overdressed, too colourful, too unusual, or simply not pulling something off.

But most of the time, we don’t actually know what anyone else is thinking.

They might notice.

They might think it looks nice.

They might think it looks silly.

They might not give it a second thought because they’re busy wondering whether anyone is noticing what they’re wearing (hopefully not).

And even if someone does think we’re being ridiculous, they get to have that thought. We don’t have to rearrange our day around it.

I like that idea.

Not because I want to make a statement or draw attention to myself, but because I want to enjoy myself without explaining why.

There are enough practical decisions in everyday life without making every little thing we enjoy pass a test first.

Does it make sense?

Is it necessary?

Will everyone else approve?

Sometimes the answer to all three can be no, and it can still be worth doing.

I love finding the things that make an ordinary day feel a little more fun and allowing yourself to enjoy them.

Wear the lipstick.

Put on the boots.

Buy the colourful sweater.

Take the silly photograph.

Take the thing you’ve been saving for a special occasion.

Wear the cloak.

You don’t have to convince anyone else that it’s a good idea.

You don’t even have to explain it to yourself very much.

You liked it.

You wanted to.

Why not?

And maybe that’s one of the forms of freedom we can give ourselves: the freedom to enjoy something simply because we enjoy it, without worrying quite so much about whether someone else might be watching.

Because the best reason for doing something is also the simplest.

It makes you happy.

And that’s enough.

🆓 Join The Slow Life newsletter to receive the FREE Slow Morning micro-experience when you sign up.   🌿 Sign up ⁠HERE⁠ 🌿

🪴 Looking for more cozy inspiration? Visit my Cozy Finds page for books, puzzles, and other favourites I’ve curated.

🎧 💜 Prefer to listen instead of read? - Listen to the podcast version of “Salem in October” HERE 🎧

This story is called Salem in October, and it’s about comfortable chairs, cloaked figures and the smell of cinnamon and cloves.

I’ve packed the usual things first, folded into the bottom of my suitcase. Sweaters, comfortable shoes, not-so-comfortable shoes, pyjamas, and enough clothes for a few days without having to think too hard about what I’ll wear each day.

Then I reach for my purple cloak.

It’s soft, and heavier than it looks, with black on the inside and enough room to wrap around me fully when the evening air turns cool. I bought it without having anywhere particular to wear it, and now I decide that Salem in autumn is just the place where a purple cloak belongs.

I fold it carefully and tuck it in beneath a sweater so my friends won’t see it when we stop somewhere along the way. I’ve decided to keep it as a surprise, although I know they’ll agree immediately that we can wear cloaks without needing an explanation.

Which is why I bought two more.

One is red, and the other is green, and I have a feeling they’ll love them.

By the time we arrive, autumn has settled over the town in the way I hoped it would.

The trees are in full colour, and leaves have gathered along the edges of the sidewalks and tucked themselves into corners beside buildings. The air has that coolness that makes a warm drink feel necessary in the middle of the afternoon.

We leave the car behind at the inn and walk with no destination in mind.

There are narrow streets, weathered buildings, old brick and wooden houses, iron fences, and shops with glowing windows. Pumpkins sit beside doorways, autumn wreaths hang on doors, and touches of black, purple, and orange appear everywhere. Witches, of course, are having their season, although we’re told they never completely disappear even after Halloween ends.

Some are carved into or painted on wooden signs. Some appear on decorations hanging from porches. There are the usual pointy hats, broomsticks, black cats, moons, stars, interesting bottles, and bubbling pots, which is all fun to see.

Throughout the afternoon, we stop whenever something catches our attention, looking through shops and pausing outside old buildings. I find myself noticing a crooked wooden staircase, a brass door handle worn smooth from years of hands, a window with lace curtains, and a barrel of pumpkins beside a doorway.

Every now and then, we see someone wearing a cloak, billowing behind them as they float along.

Sometimes it’s part of a costume. But really they look like something they’ve chosen because October in Salem gives them unnecessary permission to dress a little differently. Each time I see one, I think about the purple, red, and green fabric waiting in my suitcase.

I begin to wonder how many people have brought cloaks here for exactly the same reason, asking themselves one of the best questions there is:

Why not?

The witches in the stories here aren’t frightening. In my imagination, they are the keepers of herbs and old books, the people who know which plants grow best in the garden and which tea might help rebalance the soul. They might live in warm houses with candles and wooden tables, with baskets of apples and bundles of dried flowers hanging from the rafters. They have cozy kitchens and comfortable chairs and know how to make a house smell like cinnamon and cloves.

Perhaps that’s the kind of witch I would be.

The sort who’s happy living life as she pleases.

Eventually, as the afternoon begins to fade, we make our way back to the inn.

It’s old enough to have the sort of character that might not need extra decoration, although there is a tasteful scattering of things to celebrate the season. The floors creak beneath our feet, the stairs are narrow, and the rooms have tall windows and old-fashioned details that make me want to leave my suitcase unopened for a while and look around.

We like that we’re staying somewhere with a history.

It’s comforting to sleep in a place that has known for decades how to host its guests.

We settle in, take off our shoes, and spend a few quiet minutes doing the ordinary things that always seem nicer when you’re away from home. I start to unpack. My friends put their things in drawers. We decide where the coats should go and make plans for dinner somewhere close by.

Then I remember what’s underneath the sweater in my suitcase.

I pull out the purple cloak.

My friends look at it, and then at me, and I can’t help laughing because I already know what they’re thinking.

I don’t leave them hanging for too long before pulling out the red one and the green one.

They waste no time disappearing into their bedrooms for a moment and come back wearing their cloaks, and the three of us are standing in an old inn in Salem, dressed exactly as we please.

We head back outside as the light begins to fade even more, and this time I’m grateful for the extra layer around my shoulders. The temperature has dropped just enough to make the cloak feel useful and not at all ridiculous, and as we walk, the fabric moves around my legs with every step.

For a little while, I feel like the sort of witch I imagined earlier, except my particular kind of magic seems to consist mostly of finding warm places to sit, remembering to bring snacks, and knowing instinctively when my friends are ready to go back to the inn.

As every town does, this place looks different in the evening.

The buildings become softer around the edges. Somewhere nearby, I can smell something sweet and spiced, and I think about hot drinks and the possibility of finding something pumpkin-flavoured before the night is over.

Now and then, another cloaked figure passes us, and we smile at each other from under our hoods.

It’s fun being part of the scene we’d been watching earlier.

We find somewhere warm to stop for dinner, and for a while we sit together with our cloaks gathered around us, watching people pass outside the window. There are families carrying shopping bags, twos and threes walking arm in arm, people taking photos, and more than a few witches making their way through the evening.

And we’re three friends who have travelled somewhere we’ve wanted to see, wearing cloaks for fun and for warmth, wandering through an old town on an October evening, and making an ordinary few days away feel quietly magical.

I wish you sweet dreams.

🆓 Join The Slow Life newsletter to receive the FREE Slow Morning micro-experience when you sign up.   🌿 Sign up ⁠HERE⁠ 🌿