To live in Anthropologie

All artsy and pretty, and smart.

To have my kilim bags packed for Hanoi or Kathmandu or Budapest, wherever the wind blows.

To be driving a beat up blue Chevy down a canyon road, dressed in floaty floral chiffon and knee-high rain boots.

To have hair that doesn't seem styled, but has been and the bee-stung lips of a twenty-two year old model, picked for her wan and lanky look.

To crawl into a mismatched bed, screaming with color and drowning in ruffles, and turn off my vintage lamp and turn on my vintage radio, and pull the duvet up around my ears, while listening to the rain.

To pour myself breakfast cereal in the middle of the night in my bowl, hand-painted by Eastern European monks, and top it with soy milk slurped up while watching Casablanca on a tiny vintage television, warming my toes in striped cashmere socks.
Wouldn't it be lurverly? in the words of Audrey, is what I think, paging through the most recent catalog. They know just how to get to me.