You Can Call Me Queen Bee

I had some fun with Polyvore a while back and discovered that I have very bad, and very expensive taste.  Like, you have no idea.

Yes, I would wear that.  In fact, I would wear it to Winco and you couldn’t stop me.

The other thing I discovered is that I don’t have time for this.  I don’t have time to go shopping virtually, much less in real life.  Not that I wouldn’t like to.  But I can imagine there being a burden attached to being rich that fortunately, I don’t have to deal with.  Because it’s not like I’d just pick up a few designer jeans and a mandatory Coach bag and call it good.  No, there would be issues.  And I would hate to have to use up all my self-control in one place.  There isn’t much to go around.  Jesus was like, “Here let me make you poor and solve half your problems.”

But at the end of the day, I decided I’m still all for creativity and style.  I love expressing myself with whatever I’ve been given.  God is a Creator God and we are made in His image.  It is fitting for us to throw up our own constellations and sunsets and then bring Him our scribbled on pieces of paper to put up on the fridge.  The good life necessitates an overflow of art and beauty.  It should poke through everywhere, and it doesn’t have to come at a price or with a label.  Joy, excitement, love, fun.    We are the children of a good God set loose in His good creation.  Make some hay.

(Admittedly, yours might be classier than mine, but I still get points for trying.)


One of the things that never sat well with me is cold boring pragmatism.  It’s kind of like mush.  I find a lot of similarities between people who uniformly wear yoga pants (when they’re not doing yoga and probably never will do yoga) and people whose entire Tupperware collection is made out of their old margarine containers.  “Hey, it works.”  And, “They’re comfortable.”  Yes, comfortable for you.   I remember queuing at customs at Heathrow, which is the very standard by which all queuing is to be measured, and noticing how ugly people were.  It was painful.  By contrast, I realized how pleasing the relatively few well-attended people were, even if they weren’t necessarily attractive.   We adorn the world we’re in – to the benefit, or detriment, of all the people we share it with.  I don’t think we usually notice the people around us because for one, we’re all going so fast, and for second, we don’t care about them anyways.  But standing there for so long I began to notice the definite pleasure derived from looking at people who were “put-together.”  I think I spent so long looking at the blonde in her non-trendy jeans, leather riding boots, classic white button-up, beaten gold bracelets, and casual blown-out hair that I probably made her nervous.  But I couldn’t help it.  In a sea of indifferent humanity, she was a piece of art.


I like to think of clothes as a means of bestowing honor.  On our calling, on our children, and on our husbands.  When we step back, it’s not just about us, and point A and point B, and whether or not the waist band is elastic enough.  It’s about the kind of world we’re creating.  Is it awesome?  Do you enjoy it?  Are we queens, or drudges?  Do we only get dressed up when we’re going “out,” because our children aren’t worth putting on real clothes for?  Does the love for our husband, and our desire to be a crown to him, compel us at all.  “If we were going somewhere I would get dressed up, you know, because we would see actual people.  But since it’s just you, I’m going to wear my Tina shirt.”  (True story.)  I remember at my bridal shower one of the not-so-older ladies was reminding me to “freshen up,” before my husband got home from work, so I could greet him.  Meanwhile, her daughter was sitting there jabbing her in the ribs.  “Mom, this isn’t the fifties!”  It’s the 2000’s and we don’t care anymore.  

mirandaAnd I’m not saying you need to vacuum in heels (…I’m also not saying you shouldn’t), but I think the quality of our lives merit some respect.  And maybe clothes seem superficial and excessive, but then again so is space.  Yeah, it looks nice at night, but what’s it for?  It’s for you to look at.  Glory is never a trivial thing.  It’s the thing.  It can’t be explained, measured, accounted for, or reasoned, only piled up.  Let’s.

6 thoughts on “You Can Call Me Queen Bee

  1. Miranda, have you heard of this site?
    I ordered 3 dresses and a skirt and a shirt. They are amazing. And affordable. So well made and for less than $10 more you can have it completely customized to your measurements! My order was over $200 and I got charged customs fees, so you have to watch for that, but even if you do, they give you a store credit for the amount.

    The dresses are lined, all come with pockets and you can choose the type of sleeve and length too! It is so good.

    • Those are niiiice. It’s almost silly to buy something new in the store these days, since the price doesn’t seem to be an indicator of the quality. Real clothes you can feel the difference. But unfortunately, the dress I have on cost a dollar. I’m probably ruined for life.

  2. They have huge sales all the time and when you sign up I think they give you a $25 gc to use on your first purchase. It ends up being much less than what they post. I don’t know how they do it. The dresses are made in India, but under strict rules that are beneficial for the sewers. If you ever feel like you can splurge, this is the place to do it! Cannot recommend them enough.

  3. I am skilled at picking the most expensive things. And struggle with a need for new flattering clothes and no time to go to the stores, none the less shop online. Not sure what to do.

Leave a Reply to mavis Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s