Because my recent weekend at the Ritz substituted for a botched trip to Napa, I arrived at the hotel with bags packed for things I would not be doing.
I get a thrill, usually, wearing the exactly right outfits at fancy hotels. I know it’s odd. But having just the right sarong for that bathing suit, the perfect wrap for evening, and the sandals jeweled in exactly the right bronze, floats my High WASP boats.
Boats foundered, beached. What to do?
Impunity, of course, otherwise known as,
How To Wear Country In The City
I have found that cuffing an old pair of jeans makes them look intentional. “These are not my old gardening pants. They are BOYFRIEND jeans.” Wearing flip flops in an of-the-moment color can have the same effect, while J. Crew Field Jackets are derived from the ultimate Country Goes City brand, Barbour. However, Significant Others who make you grin wildly open all sorts of territories.
My grandmother always said “territory,” when she meant “place.” I don’t know why. A Grande Dame mystery.
I also left all my city hair products behind, as I never blow dry in the country. Not out of some misplaced No White Shoes Before Memorial Day code. Sturdy Gals just hate holding a plastic tube in the air, blowing hot air at heated heads. And, when dried without frizz tamer, my hair behaves rather like the magic old lady locks in this child’s book. Dandelions, goosedown, fluff.
I went out to dinner in a silk jersey Tory Burch au Pucci, 10-year old pink-red, kitten-heeled, possibly other-hyphened, Stuart Weitzman shoes, and Country Hair.
I used to worry more. Middle age is pretty good.