The 2012 Olympics were all about fashion. That may not be what you were hearing on NBC, but that’s definitely what you were reading if you follow me on twitter @twoellerachel (warning: there was a lot of talk about glittery Russian tears). I’ve become completely swept away by the Olympics, and what I lack in hair clips and tight buns, I’ve made up for in Olympic-inspired fashion. Gap (yep, you read that right) made it easy with these vintage Olympic logo tees. #TeamUSA
Well, the month opened with Danny’s birthday and ended with the launch of his new California-inspired clothing line, Collective Los Angeles. In between, however, I stopped sharing my experiences with you. So, because the pictures are more exciting than my thousand words, I’m going to take you on a brief visual journey through my July:
Tweed Bunny and I went on a road trip to Prescott, a town in Arizona north of Phoenix and usually cooler. I said “usually.” We didn’t have fun. We had gone for what we imagined would be rest, relaxation, solitude, and inspiration. Instead, we were met with a 4th of July parade in a very patriotic town. At the coffeeshop where I had hoped to hide away and pen the next great American novel, I asked the barista if it was always so busy.
“This is our busiest day of the year,” he responded.
“Just my luck,” I said. “I was hoping for a reclusive writer’s retreat.”
“Try New York.”
Perhaps he was well-versed in irony, or perhaps New York has changed significantly since I last wrote a check to ConEd, but suffice it to say the month was off to an exasperated start.
But that is the Chanel June color-of-the-month on my nails. Details.
Speaking of details, I’ve been liking the color blue lately. This is a new thing. And apparently I’m collecting fortunes where the 2L business cards used to reside.
Grace is settling in to the new apartment, and I’m making efforts to unpack. Yep, that’s your old friend, the pinball machine. The chair is Mitchell Gold, and the throw is Missoni for Target (and it’s a baby blanket).
I read a lot. And there’s been a lot of TV. And now the Olympics!
The J.Crew umbrella continues to serve me well. Madewell on the left. Crewcuts on the right.
I wear a lot of hats so that I don’t have to worry about my hair. Incidentally, I wear some version of patterned Current/Elliott jeans every other day, so get ready for those green polka dot friends or their mustard brother or their plaid cousin to show up again.
I thought that I had lost all (ok, that’s half) of my sunglasses in the move. Grace found them.
We get a lot of haboobs here. Is that the plural of “haboob”? I feel like it should be “habi.” Or “ya habibi,” which The Countess taught us means “darling.” And speaking of Bravo TV and storms, it’s time for me to close out July and watch last night’s Real Housewives of New York before the haboob roles in and I settle in for 6 hours of women’s gymnastics.
I’ll give you more pictures in August, ya habibi.
“Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.”
Well, friends, when I first took this picture, I had intended to write to you about how maybe when Alice finds herself stuck in a rabbit hole, she needs to seek out new heroes. And what better hero to lift you out of a hole than one who can fly? But now I’m torn, dear friends, for it turns out that freebird Peter was something of a fool. I fear that for too long, I’ve been under Peter’s attractive spell. I embraced his tenacity, his bravado, and, of course, his mission to never grow up. So, I decided to read his story with my open, not-grown-up eyes to see what lessons he had for this little Alice.
And here’s what I’ve learned thus far: Wendy was the talent! Peter came to Wendy (not the other way around), because she could tell stories and sew on his careless shadow. She was a shiny commodity to show off to his lost boys, and he took credit for whatever she did. And let’s not forget that he couldn’t even fly without Tinkerbell’s fairy dust. Sure, he had youth and confidence on his side, but with it came reckless, irresponsible behavior and a lack of concern for the women who supported him. So….perhaps I’ve misread the tale all along. Perhaps Peter Pan is actually a cautionary, feminist text? And while at first disappointed in my former inspiration, perhaps I have found a new hero.
Here’s to Wendy & Tinkerbell!
It’s a new month, so, in keeping with my mission of rebirth, I’m embracing the new. I’m wearing a Nars lipstick called New Lover. My nails are painted a new peachy orange, Chanel’s June color-of-the month. I’m exploring new coffeeshops in town (J’adore & bonne chance, Frothy Monkey; Hava Java, you know I’ll never quit you). But most importantly, Brother Mikey (as he’s listed in my phone) has adopted 2 new baby brother kittens.
Welcome to June, new friends. I’m not quite ready to embrace an “out with the old” philosophy, but I will, at the very least, find room in my heart and my wardrobe for “the new.”
Yes, I’m still sad. Yes, Memorial Day weekend was supposed to be about forces bigger than me and the sacrifices made. And yes, I think about those things. But I also think about the moment I find myself stuck in. It seems, dear friends, that I’m having trouble letting go and moving on. Much of that has to do with the loss of my little Miu Miu, but I’m also struggling with my departure from wonderland in general.
I’ve made a new home for myself with giant white walls and blank canvases. However, much to my dismay, the movers delivered roughly 100 boxes of memories. I’m literally wearing my memories all over my body. The shiny objects that used to distract and delight are now reminders of a life I’ve left behind.
As I try to make it through unpacking each box, I’m overwhelmed by my inability to say goodbye.
I thought this would be easier. I clicked my sparkly red heels, I defeated the Queen, I drank the potion. But it didn’t work. Sometimes fairytales aren’t that simple. Sometimes the superheroes have to do a little bit of grunt work. Even Clark Kent had to find a phone booth and do an ordinary costume change. So, perhaps the only way for this Alice to get out of her hole is to climb out the old-fashioned way, step by disarming step.
So, Nashville, I know you like when I write you love letters. And I do love you. You were there for the journey. You even witnessed my Felicity moment (the one where I cut off all my hair, not where I traveled back in time due to an extended season, although these days I wonder if I wouldn’t welcome that). Yes, we’ve shared a lot, and yes, I’ve dropped many a token of affection your way. But I need to let you go. I need to sing my own song.
Truth: I am not ready to let go. I am not ready to break my time in wonderland into pieces and spice them into this next chapter of my life. But the damage has already been done. The new chapter is already writing itself. I can either hide in this rabbit hole, or I can pick up a pen. A slow, unsteady, deliberate, calculated, luminous pen.