Don't tell me what I can't do

After being with Joe for two years, I like to think that I have a pretty good idea about what outfits he's going to like and which he'll be ambivalent/confused about. When I thrifted this lovely Old Navy blouse last week, I was sure he would love it. It's a button-up, one of his favorite styles on me, and red, one of his favorite colors on me. (Sorry it looks kind of orange in the photos...my bathroom lighting is mediocre at best.) But when I showed up at his place and asked him about it, he was unenthusiastic. He didn't dislike it, but he was rather confused by this style, which is apparently kind of pirate-y. I, on the other hand, am wholly infatuated with it. The sheer fabric, ruffled sleeves, seaming and color are lovely, and I have a dearth of pretty feminine blouses, so it will fill a big hole in my wardrobe. 

I accessorized with an old belt of my mom's that's cracking and falling apart. I've always been the type who's drawn to minor, intentional imperfection in fashion. I embrace holes in a cardigan, wear vintage rings with missing stones, sew on a mismatched button when the original goes missing. I'm not sure if I really value character and originality over perfection, or I'm just rationalizing my laziness. For now, I'll keep claiming it's the former.