Yestereve, as the sun faded to from pomegranate to peach over Lake Marion, Stella and I threw out our proverbial elbows and barrelled up 95 North from Charleston back to Durham. I spent one night in my old twin bed to help Mama decorate for Christmas--minus the tree, reserved for Jessica and Kawika, (Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say/on a bright Hawaiian Christmas day!). Mama and I got the two main things squared away: the front of the house and the mantel, so the mini-weekend was a success. For those on the Smith family side of things, the above photo is a tasty preview of the glorious splendor that awaits you down South in just a few short weeks. Get excited. And don't forget your plaid onesie pajamas.
I also got to briefly hug the neck of my beloved Kelly Byrd and wile away the hours, burn the midnight oil, shoot the breeze with my lovely towheaded friend--fitting since she has now pitched her tent and hung her plaque on Sullivan's Island. Ah, to life--l'chaim! [Tevye to God]: I know, I know. We are Your chosen people. But, once in a while, can't You choose someone else?
This past week, Andrew and I had the pleasure of pseudo-hosting Chris and Jennigray as they were en route from Florida to the North country--New York, we thought, but back to New England--New Jersey for a wee bit--back to the blustering, blistering cold of winter, bypassing fall entirely. Interesting that the place they were supposed to go was called "New" and the place they went instead is still called "New". Something going on there, methinks. Sometimes you have to squint your eyes and listen carefully beyond the rumble of the U-haul for God's voice and direction. And bring your woolies--as Beckie would say--it's going to be a cold one. I commend them on their flexibility and steadily pleasant attitudes. Where most people would dissolve into tears and frustration--they just laugh and shrug and go with the flow. Nicely done, Hewitts, nicely done.
In a totally different subject category, I have a bone to pick with the fashion industry about this trend I have a love/hate relationship with. There are many things women sacrifice in order to look their most fashionably best: expanding their lungs fully in order to take a complete breath, any semblance of balance, the ability to cry without looking like the Joker, being able to lift their arms beyond shoulder height without bisecting the garment in question, freezing to death/sweating to death...the list could go on forever. This one small clothing item I have had to deal with quite a bit recently is the aptly named: Tights. They are the chameleon of clothing: they could be an accessory, an undergarment, in some unfortunate cases pants (you know who I'm talking about), but whatever category they fall into in your closet, they are everywhere lately. Including on my body. I thought that somewhere around third grade my days of wearing crotch-sagging, ankle-pooling, behind the knee-running, opaque tights were over. It seems that the universe is chuckling at me, because tights are one of the biggest must-have trends this winter--and I will admit, they are very practical and cute in many, many ways. The patterns, the colors--short skirts and high boots--YUM. I really do love it. But I just have this thingggg about wearing something actually named for how it feels to wear it: tiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.ss.ssss. With an "s", meaning plurally tight. Twice as tight. Two tights, not just one. Got it? And no matter who you are, or how stylish you are, if you lifted up your dress in church, you know your tights would be under your armpits, because that's just how they are. It's roll control, it's breathability, it's sag prevention. Whatever your flavor, your tights are always soaring above your umbilicus. Don't get me wrong, I like them. I wear them--in all colors of the earth-toned rainbow. But I don't feel bad--not one iota of shame, regret, sorrow, or penitence-- when I sprint for my closet after church to peel them off, take a breather, and put on my jeans.
As Forest would say, "And that's all I have to say about that".