Dear reader, a comment from yesterday's post brought to my attention the Orson Wellesian-type panic I may have inadvertently caused with my reference to Anthropologie closing its doors. If, as a result of what I said, you smashed open your child's piggy bank and took out a second mortgage on your home in order to buy up the last frivolities of that emporium, I do apologize.
Darling, I assure you, it was all hypothetical! I was only trying to make a point! Don't ask me now to recall exactly what the point was, given we are talking about something which happened yesterday and my brain has a memory span of three minutes, but I'm sure it was profound to the extent of being unfathomable.
At any rate, please allow me to put your fears to rest: Anthropologie is still in the business of selling dreams at a stiff price.
How do I know? Because today was a break from school and the girls and I took a little field trip just to make sure.
It's just that there's something rather deflating about seeing the incarnation of one's imagination being offered at prices which could stun a charging elephant. It's like being told: Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, but it's going to cost you an arm, a leg, and a kidney to experience the magic.
Still, it was fun to bring the girls and admire things together. Sophie, my little papercutter, was drawn to this mesmerizing chandelier.
Caroline browsed the books on Paris.
She also made this brilliant discovery, something I've wanted for ages: a tiny magnifying glass which happened to be on sale!
There was no need to give it a second thought. We left the store congratulating ourselves like we'd invented the magnifying glass, not merely purchased one.
It's just that we have so many things in need of perusal, you see.
So many tiny, curious things.
Dear reader, I don't know what possessed me! Since I was a child, reading glasses have held a certain fascination. They make me think of people I love: music teachers, librarians, and little old ladies sipping tea wearing glasses on golden chains around their necks. It always seemed reading glasses were the precursor to something lovely--reading, of course, but also knitting, stitching, and the many other beautiful details of life.
So...when I saw Anthropologie offered reading glasses, I somehow got fixated upon the notion of having a pair for myself. Does that seem a little odd? Especially since I now have a raging headache from wearing them?
I mean, who's to say when I'll actually need them, darling...but won't I be grand when the day comes?!