Two body parts that resist change as years accumulate deserve recognition. Let’s hear it for wrists. I collect bracelets, file them according to type and occasionally model them for an audience of one. Earrings are also in good supply. As for wearing them, not so much anymore. The pandemic changed things. Enter ear-loop masks, a hearing aid with battery apparatus riding behind the ear, and from disuse, the two dainty holes in the dead center of my lobes grew shut. I am not sad because sometimes I give my springy, cute, wrinkle-free lobes quick little tweaks just for fun. Also, to let them know they are loved.
Occasionally, when dressing up I might wear a single strand of pearls but why call attention to my neck? As necks go it’s not the worst but it’s seen some action and is far from youthful, tight, and swanlike. Pearls remind me of happy times, sorority composite cameos, elegance and can turn a bland day into, if not a party, something special. I ignore warnings not to wear pearls whiter than my teeth. Caps and crowns remain if not dazzling they’re white enough not to do battle with my pearls.
Feet change but my head says buy shoes anyway. What harm is there? I love off-beat shoes and haunt sales racks where the oddballs wait to be discovered. I’ll never, give up shoes and since my go-to foot apparel is sneakers, I don’t wear out my good shoes, just donate them when they go out of style. One of the saddest days of my life was loading boxes of my (medium, sensible, great quality) high work heels for charity. Age, knees, and disk replacements drove nails in that coffin.
When, for bobbin-olive.com, I wrote the A Journal for Celebrating Shoes, it was a tribute to my mom, Olive Kelley. We never went to town without her buying new sandals, scuffs, slippers, or pretty lace-ups for her daughters to wear to church and school. I could write forever in my journal, wax passionately till the end of time about shoes. Just knowing those boxes are there, with their varied and eclectic treasures, brings me indescribable joy.
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