“oh, the things you wear!”. Music to my ears. Smiles to my lips. At least nobody says “oh, the things that wear you!”.
The things I wear (that’s right, I wear them, they don’t wear me) are usually as unique as I can find them. Brands don’t mean much to me, although I am partial to some because of their quality standards. I love hand made stuff, I adore things with a good story and I preach dressing according to one’s mood (that’s why I don’t trust sexy-all-the-time, serious-all-the-time, polished-all-the-time. Who the hell wants to be oh-so-friggin’-beige-all-the-time?!?! And, more importantly, WHY??!!).
Anyway- in short, I’m striving to find the clothes and accessories that will make me look exactly how I feel inside my head.
Today, a bib. The kind we used to wear in communist Romania, to upscale our cheap, uncomfortable, dreadful school uniforms. The kind our mothers would hand- make at home, then use to brag about how talented a wife/mother they are. (They would also starch them to death so key keep longer. The effect was that all second graders looked like Renaissance paintings, walking around very robot-like in our attempts to keep them clean and wrinkle- free).
The day I found a stack of crocheted collars in the basement of some dollar store in the SF Chinatown, my knees got warm, my stomach fuzzy and my eyes teary. And no matter how sucky and decrepit those poor, unfortunate early times were, nostalgia came back, wild and unforgiving, to bite me in the neck. Maybe it’s what adults do- get soft over childhood.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s that back then I didn’t know how tired and starving the country was. I was a kid, I was happy with little and all I had to worry about was my grades. And the state of my bib.
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