About three weeks ago, we had an ice storm and a two-hour delay for work with schools closed for the day. Mr. Gaelic, in typical male thinking, went out to scrape the ice from the truck, neglecting to salt the walk on the way to the vehicle. Two step out my front door, not even off the front stoop, and WHAM, I fall and shatter my left ring finger. Two cut-off wedding rings, five pins, one cast, and untold numbers of Oxycontin later, he readily admits he could have been more focused on safety and less focused on getting to the office "early".
The stitches came out Friday. While the nurse was removing the black threads (and let me just go on record as saying that having stitches removed from a finger hurts almost as much as the break itself), I was lamenting the scar I will have. The nurse (a man) suggested that a new ring might be in my future. Mr. Gaelic agreed. And I have a witness!
Mr. Gaelic has been very protective ever since my fall. He holds my arm in the snow, or walking down stairs; he carries bags for me; he drives me to work. (Oxycontin use prohibits driving, at least in my book.) He also drives me to my favorite hair salon to have my hair washed and blow dried. The bandage is supposed to stay dry and I wouldn't be able to hold both a hairdryer and brush even if he washed my hair for me at home.
Yesterday's salon outing also became a stop at my new favorite designer's store. Certain designers cut their clothes in a way that fits my body well without the need for alterations. Dana Buchman used to be my favorite until she discontinued her designer line in favor of a line exclusively for Kohls. She may be the same woman, but her clothes don't fit like they did when she had her own stand-alone stores.
Yet even with my new favorite designer, he has several labels and each one fits differently. His basic line fits me in the rear but not the waist or sleeve length. His next step up runs small for size. Even though dress size numbers don't bother me, if the mid-line label fits my waist and sleeve length, it doesn't fit my hips.
That leaves his top-end prêt-à-porter line. Prêt-à-porter is ready-to-wear, as opposed to his couture line which is seen on the catwalks of Bryant Park (oops, I mean Lincoln Center where they moved Fashion Week this year). Great. Just great. My body type fits the most expensive line. What's a girl to do?
Buy on sale only.
Which is what happened yesterday. I snagged a 100% cashmere dress for more than 75% off the original price. I didn't have to elbow my way through the crowds at Loehmann's or Filene's Basement or TJMaxx. The saleslady set us up in a cozy dressing room with a loveseat and table and offered us coffee and water. And the dress fits like a glove!
My new shopping habit won't be hitting the discount racks in strip malls, but hitting the stand-alone designer store downtown when they hang a Sale sign in the window. Same price, better service. Eureka! I have found my new favorite store!
Music and Footsteps
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