don't think. just do.

I don't know who decides what's in and what's out. Trends. Fads. Fashion faux pas. Like how now it's acceptable for brown and black to be wardrobe buddies when before that was frowned upon. Or, for instance, what committee of people got together and decided that in 2009 everyone would take their engagement pictures with bunches of balloons? Or those mustache parties. Explain the evolution of those. A guest shows up at thanksgiving dinner with a really sweet little stache and some kid spends the night on his knee, bouncing up and down, and playing games. He thinks, "This stache guy is A-OK." The next day he wakes up and tells his mom he wants to look A-OK, too. She cuts a mustache out of construction paper and fastens it with Scotch tape, but that falls off fast. So she puts it on a popsicle stick. All the boy's friends thinks the look is pretty manly and they want one, too. So the mom starts making mass-production prop popsicle stick mustaches. After a late night crafting at the kitchen table, the mom passes the mirror in the hall. Smile absent, and eyelids droopy, she holds a mustache up to her face until the corners of her mouth turn up to meet the curves of the paper mustache. Then and there she decides the kids shouldn't have all the fun. And...voila, a mustache party? Really. I'm asking. Occasionally these things keep me up at night.

However, fad or no fad, in or out, I would like to publicly declare my deep and abiding love/appreciation for the person who decided that ruffles are a fashion "do." This person I love to the moon and back.

Universe in a Red Bag

I stepped out onto 25th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenue, and in a very Martha Takes on Manhattan attitude, my morning stride matched those of the other native New Yorkers. I was determined to blend in; to seem as if I knew exactly where I was going. I was surrounded by people getting their morning groove on, ipod earbuds shoved in their ears to drown out the sounds of the city. I could have joined them. But this trip I knew I'd spend a lot more time on foot than the last, and I wanted to hear and see it all. I had everything I needed in my bag (ipod included). K helped me plot out a path the night before. I was to head straight down 5th until I reached Union Square.

* * *
In my visits to the City, I've noticed that everyone carries large bags. Why? Because they have to be prepared for anything. A last-minute dinner date, an unexpected downpour, sore feet after a long day on Wall Street, an extra bone for their little dog (who fits in their bag) a coat in case the wind changes, an ipod, a laptop, clothes for the gym, a good book for the subway...New Yorkers, for the most part, are prepared for anything. I've seen ladies pull full wardrobe changes out of their bags. By the time the Subway stops on Broadway and 42nd Street, they're all dolled up and ready for a night out on the town.

There is a scene in a less than stellar chick flick where the two main characters (guy and girl) are sitting on a bench. Guy has just gotten himself into a bit of a situation and girl comes to his rescue. Girl pulls one thing after another out of her bag, all of which aid in the rescuing of said guy. In what could be considered one of the cheesiest exchanges in the whole movie, (if not in all of Chick Flickdom) guy asks girl, "What else do you have in there?" The response, which inevitably makes me want to throw up each time I hear it, "My universe."

* * *

I made it down to Union Square on my own, and, in one of my dumber moments, purchased books for my family at the beginning of what I knew was going to be a long walking day. I figured I'd lug the books around until we braked for lunch, at which point I could switch my satchels at K's place before the afternoon adventures commenced. The rally spot was Whole Foods. The only thing on our list: organic marshmallows. Both practical and delicious. They wouldn't add any heft to my hauling. K would meet me there after her morning of work. I'd tell her all the things I'd seen; all my favorite spots.

I forgot to mention that in a moment of utter ignorance, I brought THE most impractical bag ever known to (wo)Man. It was big, therefore, I thought it was the perfect candidate for the job of towing things to and fro as K and I traipsed up and down Manhattan. When I saw it in a store at home, it had a certain je ne sais quoi about it, and, with a New York state in mind, I thought I'd bring it along and try my hat at the whole avant garde thing. So, I bit the bullet and bought the bag. Darling, yes. Practical, no. The straps slid off my shoulders, the cute flower on the outside kept catching on my sleeve. By the time I lugged my books seven blocks, I was through.

At the bottom of Union Square, near Whole Foods, I spotted it: Filene's Basement. Therein lied my salvation. I walked in, perused their purses and grabbed a big black one off the hook. Behind the black bag was a red bag. Red. I quickly switched the two, and bought the bargain bag (Thank you Filene, your Basement -- which really isn't a basement at all. I took two escalators to get there, and your bottom-line prices). I told the lady, no, I didn't want a bag for my bag and hurried out to the lobby where I spilled all contents of my bag(s) onto the tile floor between Filene's Basement and DSW. The Red Bag was a smash hit from the beginning, fitting all the contents of my old bag, a new pair of shoes from DSW (turns out my sensible shoes weren't so sensible) an umbrella, my books (still a dumb idea, even if I found a Central Park Running Guide Dad just had to have for his next trip to the City) and all other necessary contents for a City Girl on the go. The shiny redness of it all helped, too. And the patent-leather (Fake. We're talking Filene's Basement, folks) would be practical for those on-the-spot New York down pours, rain pelts sliding off the patent.

The bag traveled with me for the next nine days. It's contents grew by the day, as did the grooves in my shoulders. But, the straps stayed in place, and everywhere I went the people did shout, "Where oh where did you get that bag?!" New York people. The very Avant Garde themselves! I wanted to say I found it on sale at Barney's to send a mad dash of female shoppers in a frenzy, but instead I said proudly, a little shop at Union Square called Filene's. Back here at home, even a year and a half later, I say, "Filene's Basement in New York." "You're kidding?!" is the typical reaction. "Forty bucks," I say. Oohs and aahs follow.

So, in what was a moment of utter frustration and unpreparedness, I bought what I thought was a bag to fit the bill. Really, what I bought was a sense of self. That red bag has become my signature. I take it where ever I go and when I arrive, I put whatever I find inside. The straps are fraying, the zipper on the inside is becoming loose, and, when the seasons change (patent ain't so hot for summer, or so I'm told) I nearly cry when as it is laid to hibernate for the summer months. I'm utterly amazed at what I find when I empty it: too many lip glosses to count, receipts, business cards, glucose tablets, tiny notebooks, medium-sized notebooks, graph paper, the latest read, lots of change. Just the other day someone asked if anyone had a pen. I quickly opened my red bag, showed off my collection and asked, "Which kind?" It was a felt tip that did the trick. I guess you could say that bag contains my universe. But, you won't ever hear me admit that out loud, at least not to a guy.

Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Tyler. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Tyler wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Tyler. Tyler. Tyler. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Tyler. Tyler. Tyler. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Tyler ended up. I was madly in love with Ben by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Ben's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Ben, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Tyler. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.