I remember the first time I heard this expression. It was in New York, in the gritty but chic apartment—typical downtown loft, elevator opening into the living room, absolutely no light in the bedrooms whatsoever, tear jerking rent each month—I was sharing with an ex of mine who won’t be named*.
He was talking to me about my personal brand, and I was still so French (I’m not anymore. I am an odd blend of different cultures) that I was huffing and puffing and rolling my eyes all the way to our tin ceiling because this concept was way too pedestrian for the refined woman that I was.
As I am walking down the aisle at the arm of my father, all I can feel is a sense of intense panic and eternity—beyond emotion. Inside, it’s blank.
The bagpipes stop. Everyone cheers, and I see the man I am about to marry, his face tense and warm. I turn around to see my brother sobbing, my dog freaking out, and the expressionless face of my mother, who, I can feel it, is beyond shock herself.
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“Seriously, what are you wearing?” The man with whom I had been trying to secure a friends-with-benefits type of relationship for the last six months—without any success, which was driving me increasingly mad—was asking me. Piqued in my vanity* and mortified, I turned around and told him, with spite, that this was none of his business, which of course was an absolute lie.
Because, if you want to seduce someone—whether the someone in question is a pathetic idea, or not—you might want to listen when he tells you that a potato bag isn’t the most enticing garment.
It was Christmas Time in London and waves of shoppers were pressing up and down the creaking old stairs of Liberty. I was on the hunt for decorations that would bring spirit to the gigantic Christmas tree that had just landed in our home, courtesy of Mr. McTavish, for whom nothing is ever quite big enough.
Towering over me he was, ever the avid shopper, quite the opposite of the image I’d had of him three years ago when I first saw his face on the dating app where I’d met him.
