For the Christmas Eve celebrations the other evening, I once again donned a tried, true flannel, this time in a deep hunter green motif, and my cascading multi-strand costume pearls. Rather than risk becoming a bit of a hackneyed holiday trope, I decided against a matte red lip, opting for a bright, cheerful redish cherry pink. This Pendleton wool flannel was a treasure scored from a consignment shop somewhere in suburban New Jersey. Most likely, it is intended for an adolescent boy, which for me, means it nestles the hips and my waist in a more flattering fashion than boxy men's and even women's cuts, though, admittedly, the sleeves are a bit short.
Our tradition for years has involved commemorating the spirit of the day with dear, cherished family friends, my childhood best friend, her older sister, and her parents. We eat much, drink too much, and laugh. While in some cases, the movements seem route, acted in a trance of memory and nostalgia, it is comfortable and has a sort of beautiful rhythm. In a tumultuous time, and in the wake of growing inevitable older, I like that some things, at least not yet, do not change. My birthday is tomorrow; I cannot help feeling a bit wistful at the passing of the years, remembering the old adventures, looking forward to the new.
Post-holiday lounging soundtrack: Dream River Bill Callahan
No comments:
Post a Comment