My dearest twenty-something singleton friend just phoned with details of her latest wildly romantic escapade. I'm talking bodice-ripper, scandalous yet soulful pirate on the romance novel cover level of escapade. After a in depth dish session, she then asked what sorts of excitement I'd gotten myself into lately.
Having recently covered my tedious thirty-something basics - my education, career, house, - I signed off of the call shortly thereafter, resigned and, if I'm being honest, perhaps just a little sad. Not that my friendship is by any means competitive, but our conversation reminded me that my days of calling friends to dissect the man du jour have hit a dry spell!
And then, not five minutes later, inspiration struck me - immature inspiration, admittedly, but inspiration nonetheless - as I grabbed my Blackberry. Pulse racing, I snapped a picture, pressed "send", and breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that I haven't left all impulsive love affairs behind me along with my 20s
I sent my friend a photo of my handbag. Yes. My handbag. I may not have any hot, tantalizing romances with hot gents but, by God, I'm clinging to the right to love & cherish fashion which I find on sale, 'til death - or American Express - do us part.
