At this point things look almost exactly how I figured they should and I will be damned if my own pearls are going to stand in the way of total completion.
How I thought things should look was: tall hair, high shoes, big purse, pearls. A strand of pearls every day like no big deal. Like, oh what, am I wearing actual pearls? I didn’t notice. They must just seem like part of me. I barely noticed I was so effortlessly pearled.
I feel like the other trappings of mature adulthood are on track just the way my preteen imagination foretold.
On and off I’ve searched “how to wear pearls,” “how to wear pearls casually,” “how to wear pearls without looking like a 1950s homemaker.” Et cetera. The results are no help. The results show new pieces of jewelry a person could buy, like, contemporary settings of the objects called pearls. Pearls in rings that span all your knuckles. Pearls intermingled on a strand with sea glass, chunks of wood, plastic babies. That is not what I’m asking to see. What I’m asking is how to wear the actual pearls I already possess, on my own personal neck as-is.
Pair this bleak quest with the fact that I already dislike this time of year. The damp chill and the dirty snow. My dirty coat and my dirty car and my front-yard fountain knocked over from a wind storm, a while back when it felt like warmth was coming but then no it wasn’t.
And then it ice-rained and now the base is frozen into the mud and the plant corpses I never raked away last fall and it looks so stupid and I feel bad for my neighbors having to look at this but there is nothing I can do about it until April is done.
I can’t make spring go away any faster and I can’t move my birdbath so I’m just going to deal with the pearls. Thirty days. Thirty days in a row, I’m wearing these pearls no matter what.
The look for day one is called Hey Pearls I Got Your 1950s Homemaker Right Here.
Tomorrow: Nothing says “pearls” like Maundy Thursday!