when I was little I convinced myself that when I was older, I would wear gloriously long, black silk gloves. I would have a red, floor-length fur coat. I would wear black and white and red and pink and whatever other colors I wanted and I would look GOOD, by Jove.
Looking back, it seems I was going to grow up and be a nice version of Cruella DeVille. You know, with the high heels and the fluff and the jewelry and class.
Just minus the puppy-killing.
Today, I do wear gloves. But the gloves that I wear are knit gloves, short, and without fingers. They're black and grey and white and pink but they're not glorious or silky by any means. They're just warm, and kind of homely, but I can write and type with them on so it's enough. I love high heels and walk in them like a queen, but high heels equal pain now that I'm old enough to have experienced wearing them for hours and hours.
I have no fur length coat, much less a red one.
And yet, I'm perfectly content, and I have been every step of my way. Almost every day of my life. (I say almost because middle school is a time that should be forgotten from human memory completely.)
They're different than I imagined, but I still got them.