L’île

There is the life that we seem to live, and then there is the life that we actually live. One might think I am this accomplished woman on the go, happily surrounded by her (certainly slightly over the hill, but) charming future husband, or her fabulous friends (of whom, obviously, she has many), and that I am all perfectly well-adjusted to the delights and the misgivings of existence.

While some of it might be true, this doesn’t take into account any of my moments of solitude, nor the inner monologue that’s constantly rolling inside of me.

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[Last week I went to a hiking retreat, one of these things made for people with considerable means, to which I was invited by a publicist who probably didn’t realise I wasn’t really an influencer anymore. Even though I am a WOPTDGLBSI (Woman Of Principles That Doesn’t Get Lured By Swanky Invites) now, I couldn’t resist the draw of finding myself in nature. 

Okay, and also in expensive spas.

The good news is that these kinds of events always have me coming back with my arms full of stories.

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It was so gorgeous walking in the streets of Paris with my dear sister, reunited as we like to be, philosophizing about life—as well as the latest fashions. We had rented a lovely place right in the Marais for a few days that promised to be rather special.

As time goes by, my sister and I look more and more alike. It’s as if our features, smoothed by the passage of time, and by our deepening natural bond, are melting into one another. 

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BAM! I bought the shoes. More like, CHA-CHING! bought the shoes. They were SO expensive. But it was one of those moments. They catch your eye, your heart starts racing, you’re afraid someone else is going to get them so you take out your credit card like you’re Magic Jordan and you dunk, and it feels a little bit like an out-of-body experience.

I left carrying them against my chest, all wrapped in the silk papers, the silk papers wrapped in shoe bags, the shoe bags in the shoe box, and the shoe box in the store’s bag, and I started waiting for it.

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