People say marriage is hard work. One thing that’s especially hard is when your spouse, who is not AT ALL a member of your blog’s target demographic, has the audacity to read your posts and offer feedback. Insightful feedback. Feedback that says I-understand-you-and-I-get-where-you’re-coming-from, which, you know, to the untrained ear sounds like “compassion” and being “known” and “loved” by somebody for a “really long time,” but to the married ear it just sounds like showing off.
So, fine. Fine. So the first time I wore the pearls was for this.
Ultimate 1987.
Probably imagining they would come off more like this.
Courtesy W magazine, latest issue. Yeah yeah.
Also, the pearls were not a coming-of-age family gift or inheritance, like I may have let seem the case in previous posts. They were a gift from a boy who drove a red Nova I believe and introduced me to the fine music of Steely Dan. I know that part for sure. I’ve had no problem making that music part of my regular life over the years, no problem at all, and I have nothing but nice memory-feelings toward the boy. So you can see how it’s maddening that the failure of these pearls, every time I’ve tried to wear them, their complete failure to turn the room into a dark sparkling ballroom, or turn my sweater set into a feather cloak, or turn whatever moment I’m inside into a lush-lush Steely Dan-feeling moment complete with a horn section, you can see why I shouldn’t have to be the one to figure out the thing that is APPARENTLY in my mind regarding what is I want from the pearls.
Right? You guys.
Oh so HERE WE GO.
You know what. I’m just not having this conversation right now. I am just. Not.
Tomorrow: Let’s get back to the easy stuff like outpatient surgery and the healing powers of well-chosen accessories.
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