Did someone say Fuller House is actually a thing? And did someone say birkenstocks?
I want to be comfortable at all times, but not attainably so; just toeing the line between day five Burning Man attendee dreaming of a shower and a Comme des Garçon obsessive overpaying for daily bedsheets.
I want to “embalm myself in swathes of black fabric,” as so elegantly worded by a British newspaper rag.
I want the feet of my grandfather, cold and wide and ready to trek across a linoleum floor sans discomfort all at once.
I want a scarf so long that it could double as a wrap-it-your-own-way bridesmaid dress.
I want either the patience to wait in line at an outbound Starbucks prior to hopping in a vehicle heading towards home, or the deep sense of serenity that would allow me to drink a hot beverage prior to entering airport security and promptly depositing four dollars and fifty cents in frothed milk in the trash receptacle.
I want a purse that magically fits my laptop and all of my nonsense, because I’m so fancy that my bags are probably currently being flown individually to my destination in advance of my leaving, all so I don’t have to lift a satchel that isn’t made of crocodile skin.
I want sunglasses so large they cover the fact that I’m as pale as the day is long, even if I have the bone structure of a beautiful albino bird.
I want to wear so many layers of ebony and midnight blue that I feel like I rolled myself up in a taco of dark fleece that in turn looks like a casual, fantastic fashion statement.
And most importantly, I want to be followed by a ghost of myself, dressed the same from the Achilles tendon upwards, only with more foresight for sun protection.
Ah, that’s it.
Image via Ron Asadorian/Splash News.