This morning I had on a wonderful outfit. It was trendy, it was brave, it made a statement. My daughter came up from her room in the basement, eyes still crusty with sleep, barley able to see, in my opinion. And her first words were, “what are you wearing?” It was the tone, it was the confusion, it was the implication of my poor judgement spooling out and coming to life, landing like a brick next to my slipper-shod toes that made me jump. I felt ready for the runway, much like this gal. But perhaps just looked ridiculous instead. I quickly changed, rather than sit in doubt all day, that’s like being stuck in wet clothes in a cold room. Ucky.
Rather than be grumpy, I asked my daughter to go to my closet and select 4 or 5 outfits that she liked, “choose from anything I own, anything you own”, I begged. I loved every choice she made. My favorite was one I wore last week to church. We picked the same combination and she didn’t know it. I got one out of four, I guess. Good news is I have three new outfits and a daughter that will be seen in public with me. When I came home from work today, I had coffee spilled all down the front of my shirt. But there’s nothing she can do about that. Grace doesn’t come in my size.
This picture is from Vogue, Hommage A Paris, June, 1985 pg 347. It is entirely written in French, I speak and read not a word. The symbol is the artist’s signature, but I do not (shamefully) know who it is? The magazine was an exciting gift from a dear friend who got into the garage sale spirit one day and fell upon it.. and thought of me. I love it even if it is beyond my understanding on more than one level.