I have never been one to shell out hard-earned cash for a shoe or a shirt or anything without putting it to work the minute I walk in the door. I more-than-frequently don shiny, saturated-hue stilettos around my house with ratty pajama pants and t-shirts - just to get a "feel" for them, to enjoy the noise they make as I traipse from my couch to the fridge and back. Or lay in bed with a brand-new bright-orange party dress, barefoot and alone with a paperback book - so long as I don't inadvertently wrinkle the fabric too much.
I have a feeling I will never be one of those hostesses with flawless china stashed away just for "special occasions" or an old lady with antique jewelry that has silently tarnished, left alone for years in some velvet-lined drawer. I have lots of "nice things" that don't seem to last long without a few bumps and bruises - a casualty of my tendency to engage in a passionate and intense love affair with the little things I choose to invite into my life.
But I'm okay with the bumps and bruises. I like everything around me to be well-loved. And most of the time, my life feels like a perpetual, exhilarating game of dress-up.
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