We were under strict orders from our son to stay within the parameters of streets x and y and under no circumstances were we to cross into the territory I call "high school alley," the domain of (duh) high school students on Friday nights. Nothing would be a bigger bummer than to run into your parents at Chipotle.
So we stayed down the street, where Mr. Snarkshelf accompanied me into Anthropologie. He had never been in that store before, which is no big surprise. Anthropologie is not for the male species. It is a shop full of lace and ruffles, hand-knits and appliques, crystal things and purses. There are candles that smell good and a rack full of drawer pulls that look like they were pried from Grandma's bureau.
It was, if you will, like an anthropological study. Men are practical. My husband takes inventory of his closet twice a year, and replaces what needs to be replaced. Usually socks, two dress shirts (one white, one blue) and three pairs of khakis.
So a place like Anthropologie is very mysterious. What purpose does that tiny bowl serve? Why does that sweater have short sleeves? Won't your arms get cold? Why do you want a dress that has the same fabric as my mother's sofa?
I must say, taken individually, some of Anthropologie's stock looks quite good. But all together in the confines of the gardenia-smelling store, it is like you have taken a trip to a parallel universe.
Shopping there is a fantasy, even for me. In Anthropologie, I am 21-year-old Indie girl. I am Zooey Deschanel, and I can rock a crinoline skirt while I ride my vintage bicycle to my guitarist boyfriend's apartment. He lives above a pizza place. We met at work at a coffeehouse.
It's my fantasy. Just go with it.
Anthropologie makes me believe, for a minute, that I need a lime-green, leather journal (to tote in the basket of my bicycle and to write down deep thoughts), I can wear a sweet little sleeveless dress with a bow at the neck but lots of space to show off my (imaginary) thin, tattooed arms.
Your thoughts, they are deep, Indie Girl
What drew me in last night was a skirt in the window. It was an A-line. It had little birdies and houses embroidered on it. It was perfect for my Indie girl fantasy life. I could pair it with an orange mohair cardigan and giant horn-rimmed glasses when I go to the Neon Trees concert.
"What do you think?" I asked my husband of nearly 18 years, who thinks I look good in most of what I've got. "Could I get away with birdies?"
He averted his eyes towards a candle that looked like a poetry book. "Um, maybe ... or no?"
I put the birdies back. Maybe if we sneak around the back, we can avoid our son and still make it to Pottery Barn before the movie.
I have this other fantasy that if I buy eight little lobster pails there it is like I am at Kennebunkport.
Bye-bye birdies
No, seriously, goodbye. Nothing to see here, lady.
