Hermès Is My Vice

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I don’t need much to make me happy and I’m pretty easy when it comes to luxury.  My personal style is traditional and classic, with a tad of boho thrown in the mix. That means when I buy something, I wear it to threads, as we say back home in Kentucky.  I do have one weakness though.  Silk scarves.  I love them.  I collect them.  I cherish them.

A starving gypsy living in Manhattan I had one vintage Hermès scarf that went with me everywhere. It was a treasure and I kept it close.  Always in my purse, shades of pink and blue, it was my silk security blanket. Perfect around my neck and shoulders on breezy, cool NYC evenings,  it fared just as well in the air-conditioned offices where I worked.  My scarf served as a dirty hair day head wrap that seemed perfectly normal on the New York City streets, and I wore it often as a belt through my jeans loops, and sometimes as a waist sash.  My scarf was a comfort on long flights to the west coast for work and short flights down south, going home.  Nothing is more comfortable than a silk scarf on an airplane. It cools when the air is thick and stuffy, and warms in that chilly blowing, recycling air.  My friends said my scarf smelled like me; Fracas, tuberose, vanilla and cloves.

When I got married and moved to Long Island, NY in 2005, I bought a 1997 SAAB convertible.  I mostly drove with the top open, even in winter.  One sunny afternoon in the late Spring of that year, on the highway in heavy traffic, my handbag sitting on the passenger seat, I lost that beautiful scarf as it flew into the breeze and fluttered behind me into the vast expressway I’d just driven.  I was wall to wall in speeding traffic and my scarf was gone forever. There was no chasing it, no saving it. I wonder if my beautiful scarf fell upon the windshield of a car that might have had an appreciation of the beauty and value of my treasured possession. I hope so.  I hope someone got it, saved it, and loved it.

Now years later, I own six Hermès scarves. They each are unique and beautiful, and I love them and wear them most often, but when I think of a Hermès scarf, I always think first of the one that got away.

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A New Year, A New Day

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Today is New Year’s Day.  The first day of the year.  It’s fresh, new and full of possibility.  Every year I make resolutions.  Some I keep and some go out the window the moment I say it.  This year my resolutions are simple.  I resolve to wear pink on Wednesdays because, well, I like pink, and because it takes me back to my ballet days of a soft pink attitude in a strictly disciplined, very sweaty artistic world.   I also resolve to drink more water.  Water will give me life and energy and if I’m hydrated I will look better in my pink on Wednesdays.  We girls want to be pretty.  Pretty in pink.  Pretty is as pretty does.  Pretty is a state of mind.  I am no longer denying it.  I’m owning it.  I’m owning the fact that I adore pink.  And finally, I resolve to dance.  Dance has been my friend, has saved me, made me crazy, kept me sane.  Sometimes I have the opportunity to dance and I sit it out.  This year, if the opportunity presents itself, by goodness, I’m going to dance! Happy New Year! I love you.

Every Moment Counts

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My son is an athlete and this weekend he broke his hand.  He most likely needs surgery and he’ll be out for  the season.  He has a good attitude about the injury, and in his attitude I see how much he’s grown, how much he’s learned in these past few years that we’ve had together.  We truly have learned to turn a challenge into an opportunity.  There’s no sitting down here; we’re moving forward.  Rather, he’s moving forward.  Sometimes I forget that I am not him and he is not me. I forget that he has become a man. They tell me this is normal mother-thinking.  Every day I’m learning to be a mother.  In moments like this, in times such as this, I believe that I have become a mother.

A Chill of Mom-ness

I’m very protective of the children who depend on me.

I never thought that I’d be called mom, and now that I answer to that call, every time I hear that sacred name, I get chills and I’m taken outside of myself and into another realm.  That name “mom”  sends me to a plane of gratitude.  Hearing the word uttered,  no matter what the tone may be, makes me happy beyond the description I try to so desperately convey.

I  wanted to belong, to feel needed, and now that I’m called “mom” I attest that my purpose has been realized.

If I sound like a cliche,  please do forgive as I relish in this small window of wonder, as it is so swiftly passing.

Soon my child(ren) will be off and gone and I will again be that woman searching….