‘Not if you never even got them out in the first place.’
Perhaps some Labor Day will roll around when I won’t say how amazed I am that it’s already Labor Day. But somehow I don’t think so.
In fact, I think my tendency to mutter such things as “boy, this summer sure went fast” and “I can’t believe it’s September already” will only get worse. I have this theory about why time seems so much shorter and goes so much faster the older you get. See, when you are twenty, ten years is half of your life. When you’re my age, ten years is, well, I won’t get all mathematical, but the fraction would end in an “eenth”.
Not that I mind. I rather like that time is now so pacey. The calendar rolls along in such high gear that if I get stuck doing something I’d rather not do, I just know that whatever it is will be over in no time. And then I’ll get to complain about it. Dental work? A blink in time. Delay at La Guardia? A mere pause in the clock. Excruciatingly bad musical theater? Well, there was the show last season that had me counting the fake bricks in the scenery. But even that ended, and now lives on as a party anecdote.
When I do feel rather gobsmacked by time’s ever-increasing rapidity, is when I, say, look in my closet and realize that I never even wore my white bucks — and now it’s time to put them away till next summer.
I know a couple of extremely astute women who run a website called lustre.net who claim that you can wear basically what you want to wear — white, and (I’m assuming) white bucks included — whenever the heck you want to wear it, calendar be darned.
Well, I respect these women and their mission, but I’m gonna stow the white bucks. I figure wearing them could go either way. Either people on the street will think I am original and daring and brave and funky and fun. Like, you know, Betsey Johnson. Who is ten years older than me and wears tutus. Often.
Or (more likely) they’ll think I’m a batty old lady who doesn’t know better than to switch to the brown bucks, already. (Yes, I have brown bucks; bucks and brogues of all shades and degrees of shininess are quite the Thing among women of my set — or at least in my personal closet.)
Incidentally, I thought about going to my closet right now and taking a picture of my bucks and brogues to share with you. But, nah. That would be a seriously batty old lady thing to do. That picture at the top is the closest I’ll get — that’s me (or my feet, anyway) modeling my other Summer Footwear of Choice: flipflops. Which The Child taught me to say rather than “thongs”. For reasons embarrassingly obvious to her then-teen self but not to me, until she ‘splained it. (“Thongs” are underwear, Mom!”)
Well, enough about me and my closet and my unworn white bucks. It’s time to bid both you — and the summer — adieu.
New York City. September 2019