My Wrists are Fully Loaded
There are two kinds of cocktails in this world: the kind you can drink and the kind you can wear. Incidentally, both are highlighted and celebrated when it is summer for reasons that are ultimately unbeknownst to me. I am not above speculation, though, so here are my paltry theories:
a) Suntans make people do crazy things like drink pineapple juice that shares cup space with tequila, this even in spite of aversions towards both.
b) Hot weather makes people do crazy things, too, like surmise that in order to feel most acutely like it is summer, stacking metal onto one’s wrist is an important ritual.
But let’s focus on number b because I think I’m onto something. Every winter I tell you that every winter I feel ready to renounce my faith in bracelets. They massacre my sweaters and get in the way of my seamlessly placing my arms in jacket sleeves. And then, summer rolls back around and for the first half of it, I am still like, no, you will not get me again this time — my wrists are going to free-ball like the lone agents they are this summer. I am not a human piñata and as such, should not elect to have shit dangle out/off of me.
Like clockwork, though, towards the end of July every single time, a brand like Shashi or Aurelie Bidermann or Odisya grabs me by the limbs and convinces me that the only people who hate being alone more than I do are Lefty and Righty (or the artists formerly known as my wrists).
And then I say to myself, hello, my wrists aren’t people, at which point I am reminded of the concept of metaphor and here we are. Loaded wrists, empty head. So what I’m wondering is whether this happens to you, too. Do you say you’ll forgo something time and time again and then find yourself creating those wearable cocktails time and time again?
In my current cup are the following:
Aurelie Bidermann’s Copacabana bracelet (I know, I can make it)
And its Sam bracelet
Also, this cool dad by Freda and Nellie which I would no doubt gift to myself because I am my own best friend.
And just like that, I’m drunk on life. Honk if you get what I mean, blow your horn if you don’t and don’t even get me started on my ankles.