Tuesday, November 6, 2012


I love clothes.

From my earliest memories I recall standing before my side of the yellow dresser I shared with my older sister.  I had to stand tip-toe to reach into the top drawers.  It would be mid-day and I would want to change outfits into something more appropriate for my next activity.  Or I was bored.

Today I stand at my open-faced shelving or in my very first walk-in closet where I stand tip-toe to reach my neatly stacked shoe boxes.  I decide what to wear based not just on my plans but for the weather.  And I am bored.

November is designed for layers of knits, sharp jackets and soft scarves.  I desperately want to play with new colors and mix textures and I especially want to open boxes of leather boots to smell the grain, feel the weight and dream of all the wonderful places I will walk in them.


I dream of walking city streets, smelling the restaurants and cafes as I pass, hearing pieces of conversations I don’t understand.  I want to pretend I’m reading but secretly people-watch, making up stories for strangers based on their shoes.   I want to meet friends for cocktails and my sisters for a stroll in the park.

In this fantasy world I am always impeccably yet creatively dressed.  I wear the same clothing repeatedly, though never looking the same, because I choose quality pieces and care for them well.  People compliment my footwear.  I smile and say “Thank you.”


I live in Texas.  It is November and 83 degrees.  My favorite sandals saw another day paired with my one and only beloved pair of denim capris.  Attempting to feel more “autumn” I wore an open-knit sweater though the heat inevitably forced it’s removal.  I drove an hour to the nearest two-story mall and bought a new pair of low-calf, leather boots.  I smelled them and dreamed of all the wonderful places I would walk in them.

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