As fate would have it, I woke up with conjunctivitis, (or pink eye as the non-med students, including myself, call it), the morning after Christmas. I deserved it after heartlessly avoiding my father and brother and their maladies. Since pink eye is uber-contagious until you get antibacterial drops working, I got to be quarantined.
Lucky for me, I received all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls, otherwise known as the one thing no man will touch at Best Buy, for Christmas. Other than my post-Christmas shopping trip(s), I've been mostly holed up in my room watching the DVDs and snuggled up in my favorite wrap.
Someone pointed out to me the other day that I have developed a penchant for cashmere. This is true, cashmere is a vice of mine. Leave me alone- it's soft, okay?
Over the past few months I have started to take my cerulean blue (courtesy of The Devil Wears Prada), cashmere travel wrap everywhere. I happened to be reading the Comics section of The Dallas Morning News the other day, and came to a shocking realization while reading Peanuts.
I am a modern day Linus, only without the animated aura of dirt hovering around me.
It was the first cashmere thing I ever bought for myself, and I got it this spring from White + Warren. It's the perfect accessory because it transforms: it can be a scarf, a wrap or a blanket. It makes unfamiliar places feel a little more like home.
Because it is luxurious and I am 23-years-old, it is socially acceptable. I can wear or carry it anywhere with me and have no one notice anything strange about it, but I'm no different than the four-year-old in front of me with his mom checking in at a Hyatt Resort. His blanket may have dinosaurs and trucks on it, but we both know that they are essentially the same.
Mine is just happens to be dry clean only and smell faintly of Coco Chanel.
“Happiness is anyone and anything that's loved by you.”
-Charlie Brown, Peanuts