Home. With a story. From the last leg of my travels.
I was wearing my old Chanel jacket, a pair of dark wash Seven jeans, black Aerosole flats, and a generic black v-neck cashmere sweater my mother gave me. Carrying my Louis Vuitton Monogram Vernis bag. In Amarante. Confession. I did have Manolo quilted ballet flats on earlier but after walking all over Princeton they hurt my feet. I changed. I did not want to slog my way through Newark Airport with a blister. Even a glamorous blister.
Now, as I carried my lovely bag, the buckle of the lovely belting leather straps kept catching the underside of my Chanel jacket sleeve. The jacket is tweed, nubbly, loosely woven. This means strands of black and white wool were torn free. Repeatedly. No matter what I did, how I held the bag, how I pulled the suitcase. See?
But wait. Did you hear what I just said? “My Vuitton bag is snagging my Chanel jacket.” I can’t even say that with a straight face. Those words could maybe come out of someone else’s mouth, but not mine. Let me try again. My Vuitton bag is…nope. Can’t do it. Sorry guys. For all I love style and I love sparkly purple things the whole thing struck me as really funny.
I mean, we’re talking luxury. Donned precisely so that I could feel invincible, impeccable, unassailable in the airport and on the airplane. So that I would be wholly free from envy or style anxiety. And we have tweed snaggage. I called my best friend in Belgium and told her. These moments cry out for sharing.
Luckily I am almost as fond of irony as I am of Amarante. And really glad to be home.