Could my mother be more elegant? I don’t think so. Could her daughter be any more grotesque? Duh.
My friend Rosie said something astute last week in connection to her grandmother who had just passed away. When assessing her demeanor: “She was tough, but never harsh. She was honest, but never offended anyone.” That’s elegance, I thought. Maintaining the ability to practice two opposing character traits and still functioning successfully, as a testament to the greater good of humanity (and, evidently, passing on the torch, albeit, somewhat amended, of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ideas on intelligence).
My mom can do that, too. I can’t.
In honor of her birthday, I let her wearing The Rectangle that is emblematic of everything she is not for a mere 25 seconds before she articulately suggested, “please remove that block of pearl with your name on it from my head. I’ve just done my hair.”
(I’m wearing a 3.1 Phillip Blouse
and my clutch is Edie Parker