Walking into Marshall’s, a humble Taylor among the curated chaos. The shades of fabric whisper secrets of their conversions—once coveted, now discarded, their allure fleeting. Feverish hands rummage through the racks, each item a fleeting muse, soon to be forgotten.
And yet, isn’t this the dance we know so well? Women, like these garments, often appraised for their utility, their sheen, their ability to fit into spaces designed by others. A fever runs through the air—not of admiration, but of judgment. The cold gaze of expectation lingers, as if each thread, each seam, must prove its worth before it’s deemed worthy of a second glance.
We dive into each other’s lives, don’t we? One after another, like garments pulled from the rack, only to be tossed aside when the novelty fades. “Good night,” we say, as if the cold over our shoulders isn’t the chill of being reduced to an emoji—smiling, waving, performing. The items we touch, the lives we pass, will likely find themselves in Goodwill’s embrace before they’ve ever truly been seen.
But isn’t that the status quo? A man’s world, where women are the fabric of the mundane—stitched into roles, hemmed by expectations, and unraveled when deemed too much or too little. Each thread, each glance, each judgment, a reminder: the world appraises, but rarely sees.
Do we need? Should we buy? Is it social? Are we bored? This is something I struggle with releasing hard earned money for things I don’t need. I’m the kind of woman who appreciates a good fishing pole, a running motor in a boat, a good tug on the line, a great muscle car with clean lines, a home that feels welcoming, Dogs by my side, kitties to cuddle, closeness with someone you can truly trust, and maybe a little laughter from a child. There’s my value… And something I feel worth building every single day. What’s yours? 
Reba Nietert 