Pants: I spent my entire childhood 100% unclear about whether or not my father liked the beach. We’d go down for a week, check into a villa or a house on a South Carolina barrier island, and I’d spend most days on the beach, in the pool, or resting inside slathered in aloe recovering from the lobster pink sunburn I’d acquired on the beach or in the pool. My mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, uncle and whatever other relative happened to be on the trip more or less followed suit.
Dad, on the other hand, would go out early in the morning for a run or a brisk swim and then come inside. He’d spend the week, hanging out in the upstairs bedroom, writing in his journal, reading the New Yorker, writing poems, plowing through the memoirs of early 20th century adventurers, or playing golf. He often ate on different schedules than the rest of the family. I might catch him early for a swim or a bike ride. I might see him at night before he and Mom would head out for their requisite date night, just the two of them for drinks and dinner in downtown Charleston, or at a Spoleto event,[1] and at least once, if I’m correct, to see Dave Brubeck. Otherwise, Dad and I spent beach trips passing like ships in the night, occupying a the same physical space but experiencing distinct but parallel vacations.
That said, after my sister was born, there was always one day that Dad would come off the course and out of the bedroom and take me to do something. This usually involved a boat ride or a movie (or both). Sometimes I could talk him into a bookstore in downtown Charleston. Past that, shopping was a crapshoot, but unlike the rest of my family he might indulge the stray bizarre kid-centered request, like Can I go to this historical recreation photobooth joint in downtown Charleston and spend $30 in 1987 money to get a picture of myself take in a ball gown simply because I’m dying to try on a ball gown? And he would hand me a couple of twenties and tell me to meet him over at the Henry’s bar or maybe over at the Mills House in an hour or so and I would feel both RICH and LIBERATED because no way either Mom or Nana would indulge that kind of thing or leave me free to wander downtown Charleston unencumbered at 11.
Anyway, when I was ten, Dad and I spent our beach day together touring an aircraft carrier and a decommissioned submarine. I learned two valuable things that day: 1) my interest in military history is extremely limited and definitely starts to abate after Napoleon and 2) I am quite claustrophobic. Like, “I can pass out and not even realize that I am passing out” claustrophobic. Like “my body just shuts down” claustrophobic. Like “a submarine, even above the waterline, docked at port is absolutely out of the question for me” claustrophobic. I think Dad felt bad about it so afterward we went downtown and he bought me a sno-cone and let me buy as many Sweet Valley High books as I wanted at the Doubleday in Charleston Place without even a whiff of are you sure wouldn’t rather start on Hemingway? I think I devoured half of The New Jessica (hands down, my favorite Sweet Valley High novel) before we even got back over the three bridges to the beach house.
I have a picture of myself that day when we set out. Dad took it on the bridge to the island. We stopped there because we saw my mother and my grandfather out fishing. We walked the span and Dad let me pose against the rail because I was wearing the coolest outfit I owned: Jams, a panama hat, and OP sunglasses (with matching croakie). Even the eyelet blouse my mother insisted on couldn’t mess with my energy. I was golden. I was rad as hell. I felt, as I told a friend years later, cooler than had ever felt in my life that day in that outfit, and maybe cooler than I have ever felt sense.
About a month ago, I found myself hungering for floral pants. I haven’t owned a pair of floral pants in years. Like maybe not since the D.A.I.S.Y Age. My shopping advisor in New York came through when I asked if she might find me something that might scratch the itch and didn’t cost more than a car payment. Thus these, which, as a bonus, came from a small, size-inclusive, sustainable label and are stupid comfortable.
Can I 100% shake the sense that I am wearing jams when I wear them? No. But hey, I once believed I looked very cool in jams. AND when I wore these to the store tonight one of my favorite stylish locals complimented me. What more can I ask for? A Sno Cone? A historical photograph?
Dad, bud, you in?
Shirt: I will never deny the accusation that I am bad with money. I have appetites and interests and spend-thrifty ways. But I am always pretty specific about the things I want to spend money on (in no particular order: dresses, books, sweaters, records, travel, skirts, fancy sneakers, parties, concerts, art, earrings, food (to cook and to dine out), fresh flowers, pens, cups and glasses, perfume, plants, notebooks, notebooks, and art supplies. Everything else annoys me. Like, I’m totally annoyed that I have to spend money on workout clothes or towels or cleaning supplies or coats or bedding[2] or face cream or pharmaceuticals or the vast majority of both non-audio technology and household goods. Why aren’t garden hoses free? Or fire extinguishers? Or trash bags? I have absolutely no idea why I’m expected to spend real money on something so boring as a car or, like, a new vacuum cleaner to replace the one that broke. I mean, I understand that these things make my life easier (and are to my ability to function and survive in this world), but what a total and complete drag.
As a result, I hold on to the shit I don’t want to spend money on for actual decades, horrifying friends with towels that still have the dye stains from 1998 and t-shirts worn into translucence. Consider this one of the latter. I think I bought this shirt at Old Navy for something like $12 early the second Obama administration. It is solidly 10 years old. The hem is totally out. It is faded. There are several holes toward the bottom. How annoyed am I that I might have to spend $12 on another boring black scoopneck t-shirt? Annoyed enough that I will probably wear this one until it falls apart on my body.
Shoes: I had a pair of platform Vans in the late 90s, around the time they were first on trend. I wore them with baggy capri-lengh work pants (the less said about that the better) to a touring punk rock music festival (certainly the less said about that the better) when I was probably too old to be at the show, let alone in that outfit. I remember feeling moderately ashamed by my footwear choice even then, but secretly vindicated when I saw Julia Roberts where the same shoes in “Notting Hill.” The 90s were a complicated time. I knew I wasn’t supposed to identify with or even aspire to be like Julia Roberts (she was too mainsteam/a sellout/etc etc), but she was very much a glamorous adult. And at the time, I was still just a sad, shabby kid, even if my I could legally buy alcohol.
I don’t know what happened to the original platform Vans. I think I got rid of them in the early oughts when we were all trying to dress like Karen O. When these popped back into circulation, 2018ish, I bought a pair. Out of nostalgia, maybe, but also they are still cute and I’ve never stopped being a Vans girl, on the sneaker side.
Outfit: I’m in the beginning weeks of what will be a wild amount of work travel, so I’m trying to spend the day doing nothing more taxing than making a salad, taking a walk, and getting irritated that my neighbors peonies are already blooming while mine are not. I chased a bit of a hangover (last night was National Cat Lady Dady; friends came over to read cat tarot and eat pizza–this really happened–and I was utterly defeated by gin and tonics) with about four cups of tea and went the to co-op, where I discovered strawberry season has officially begun. It’s early enough that this should probably make me uncomfortable, but I love strawberries.
It’s going to get cold for a bit again tomorrow, so I’m not going inside until nightfall. It is beautiful out and these berries are everything.
Related: how to clean berry juice from laptop keyboard?
Pants: Lucy & Yak, 2024
Shirt: Old Navy, 2014?
Cardigan: Uniqlo, 2016?
Shoes: Vans, 2018
Earrings: AllSaints, 2018ish
[1] They took me to Spoleto once, for the finale with fireworks, while the festival orchestra played Profkiev’s Romeo and Juliet on a floating stage situation over the butterfly ponds at Middleton Place (also complicated with time). I found this both thrilling and slightly boring (at barely seven, I could not yet understand the point of classical music if there were not ballerinas, opera singers, or the opening title credits of Star Wars involved).
[2] In truth, I might get way into linens and bedding if I had lots of money to throw around. A nice towel can improve your whole morning. Good sheets do actually change the quality of sleep. So do good pillows. And I probably ought to replace my duvet with one that did not come from IKEA twelve years ago. Also, I need a new bed and a new mattress. Both of these things are annoying but not as annoying as the fact that I also need new kitchen cabinets. Can you imagine a less interesting thing to spend money on? I mean, I don’t have kitchen cabinet money laying around but if I did, do you have any idea how much I would rather spend that on a couple of months writing in a small Italian apartment somewhere close to the sea, going out for the occasional evening wine in one of my many excellent summer dresses? Related: I would have made such a good rich person. Also: adulthood often sucks.
Tiny Commotions 
