Summer Sales
There it was in the window of my favourite dress shop on the High Road. And it was on sale, big time sale. As in down from £370.00 to £150.00.
It was rather striking black silk flower pattern mini sundress dress by Marc Jacobs. Would look stunning with some edgy Jesus sandals. Heels with this dress would look cheap, it needed dressing down and a chunky leather bag so that it wasn’t too babydollish. The print was a little on the big and bold side, but at almost six feet I could just about get away with it. Anyone under 5’8 shouldn’t even think about this dress.
I had had my eye on this dress for oh, a good six months. See I don’t generally buy investment pieces when I first see them. Especially when they are still full price. Investment pieces are expensive by their very nature and therefore do not fly off the shelves.
Only once have I ever paid full price for a designer piece of clothing (we are talking Grand Slam designers here kids, Missoni, Marc Jacobs, Chanel, Pucci) and it was Missoni. It was my 35th birthday present to myself eons ago. I saw it in the window and I knew it would take me from Sunday lunch with Seven Jeans to a cocktail party on a yacht in Cannes (still waiting on that darn invitation) with white linen drawstring trousers and flip flops.
I have worn that top so many times that Mr. Magnolia one night was like, I know no one at this party has seen that top and it is fabulous darling, but could you wear something different just for my sake? And well, he did have a point. I pick carefully and when I like something its usually because it is good, very good. No point in filling your wardrobe with a lot of crap is there?
I like to wait to see if that particular piece hangs around in a shop for a while. Make sure it has a chance of getting in the sale, but also in a way to make sure its as singular as I thought it was. If it doesn’t fly off the shelf, it takes someone with an eye and confidence to carry it off.
And I know, I know, what does this have to do with toyboys? Well, I went in and tried that dress on. It was well made. I felt almost like a million bucks in it. The colours worked. The pattern was just about ok on me and I had the accessories at home to make the whole thing work. But it just wasn’t right.
I tried my best to rationalise it, make excuses for it, justify its price. But my gut told me it just wasn’t for me and even though I knew that, I wanted to buy that damn dress anyway because so much of it was so good. I mean really, really (I would say a bad word for emphasis here…) good.
And you know, just like that dress (not the hanging around until sale time part of the metaphor because this particular toyboy was heavenly, just so damn good looking it should be illegal, bloody charming, and get this, get this, organised and generous), no matter how soft his lips (very in case you were wondering) were and no matter how extra dark chocolate velvety his eyes were, or they way he did that cool thing with his pinky finger (yes he wears a pinky ring, I know ya’ll, I know!) when he lit a cigarette, or how much I wanted to go to Paris with him (and buy some mascara as well), or well, never mind … there was an edge to him that I could never fix cause he didn’t think he needed fixing.
Maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he just needed alterations if he was going to be right for me or me for him.
I swear ya’ll I wish he had never gotten back in touch after my post divorce mini-break to Poedunk (you should have seen the look on Daddy’s face when I told him about Mr. Magnolia’s new Russian girlfriend!) I was almost over the, well, the idea of him more than anything else by the time I had gotten back.
Oh, on days like today I miss good old Poedunk. No need for Marc Jacobs round there.
But just like that dress, I’m still thinking about him dammit all to hell because we could have been really, really (insert bad word for emphasis) good. Out of this world sexy together. Maybe not for the rest our lives good, but, oh hell, you know what I mean.
Ms. Magnolia
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