Sometimes I fantasize about living in a vintage
boutique. ‘Set up shop’ in an actual shop. Make a bed out of an antique sofa, swapping
sheets for silk shirts and featuring fur instead of feather down. Perhaps a
recycled turtle neck sweater as a pillow. Each day would involve dressing
myself in timeless pieces and twirling around like Marilyn Monroe (naturally, there
would be an exact wig hiding amongst the headwear that conveniently captures
this superstar-actress moment). My house would be a giant wardrobe and it would
be my heaven. And, although clichéd, home would indeed be where my heart is, since
tiny pieces of it were, long ago, delicately sewn into each stitch of every
pre-loved garment. I know this because upon seeing a vintage treasure, my heart
rapidly beats as if it is going to fall out of my chest; letting me know that it
is trying to reach out for something it has been looking for its entire life.
As Vogue fed Carrie Bradshaw, I would dine daily on
my collection of classics, their beauty and style providing more energy than
any food in world. For this reason, no kitchen would be needed, nor would I
need a laundry; why worry about washing when there is a new outfit to wear each
day? I would live in my vintage heaven for so long that my fragrance would
become Le Parfum de Grandma and I would smell like the happiest girl in the
world.
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