Vanity, past and present.

Day two of packing commenced with the help of my kind mother. My morning began on the highest, sharpest note and following three breakfast/espresso stops alongside the man with the legs, (not to mention the partaking of the best croissants at Le Croissant since my time in gaie Paris with no other than Puke Marvin), I fell into bed with Maarten Van Severen. He with the exquisite taste in all things cutlery, the hearth, the home, tables, chairs and pet pigs for his baby son Flor. My kind of man.

I read, and then slept with the spine of Maarten in hand.

After a short nap and then a short packing frenzy (my mum in the kitchen up to her ears in utensils and Tivoli, me wading in the shadow of art supply death), she left and I moved back to the closet. Once there, I found my ghastly fuchsia sateen back up just-in-case grad dress a la 2004. Just in case of what? A backwards time lapse landing us all in the throes of 1981 and all of it's ruffle/satin/oversized bow/mermaid silhouette glory? God almighty. Upon the discovery, I screeched in half horror and half delight, stripped down immediately and threw that heinous body con dress up and over my head. By the grace of God alone it still fit perfectly. Maybe even better. I wore it for the better part of the afternoon, stomping around in my best heels (my neighbors hate me) through the maze of cardboard boxes now home to all of my books and shit, and laughing with delight every time I passed a mirror. Oh to be eighteen. I would rather not, thanks. Twenty three has been serving me well. Today's satin discovery was a hilarious reminder that I still have the chest of a twelve year old and an ass that is well on it's way.

There is a woman outside of my window with the most beautiful throaty laugh. Without rising, I can tell she is digging through her carryall while her counterpart waits patiently and I can't help myself but wonder what her grad dress looked like. In actuality, the dress I ended up choosing was quite lovely. Silk, ivory, chartreuse, drop waist, something I still wear, five years later. (Although for a few months I did enjoy torturing my poor mother by vowing to wear said five dollar dress in front of five hundred people). I best be off; my hair is insane and if I am to go back into view of the general public this evening, something desperately needs to be done.

Box count: 15. Shit.

Adios, I have an Exhibition to stalk.
Vain Jane, so much fabric.