Sunday, February 1, 2015

~ springtime ~

I can't wait for spring, so I'm gonna go ahead and pretend that it's March and the flowers are blooming, the bees are flying, and I'm unpacking the shorts and putting away the sweaters because the idea of two more months of layering and hurrying from one poorly heated building to another is disappointing.  Party to console myself (and partly to avoid doing the things I actually need to do), I've been slowly purging my closet to make room for floral 50s dresses, cigarette pants, and an assortment of playsuits and rompers (none of which I currently have).

Glamour, March 1954

Not that I haven't enjoyed wearing my vintage coats, (faux) fur stole, turbans, and fleece lined everything, but I'm really excited about wearing fewer articles of clothing.  Maybe my hatred of winter is due to the fact that I spent the vast majority of my childhood running around in my underwear and the plastic version of Dorothy's ruby slippers (just look at my childhood photos - it's like I didn't have any other shoes), and only layering on pants and a jacket when it got too cold to go swimming and play Oregon Trail outside.  Whatever the reason, a decade later, I still hate winter.

I'm ready for beach days, and popsicles, and temperatures that begin with numbers greater than 7.
And until that first glorious day of spring, I'll be silently cursing winter and dreaming of better days ahead.


No comments:

Post a Comment