Tuesday, February 16, 2010
I volunteer in a lace museum. I handle lace. I catalogue lace. And nowadays, it seems, I dream about lace.
I dreamed I went into the museum as usual: I was wearing my everyday shoes- but in a peculiar twist, there were additional pieces of lace flapping over the toes. I believe they were glued on.
I asked the other ladies for their opinions. I expected compliments and awe, and that I, a relatively recent arrival to the museum, would be welcomed into the fold on account of my innovative style. A trendsetter. Somebody who could take lace in new directions; somebody who knew how to wear it.
As I glanced down at my feet, I was alarmed to notice how yellow and fragile and grubby the lace really was, and it appeared to be getting yellower and grubbier by the second. It was not attractive.
The others, understandably, were not impressed by my lace-shoes, not a bit. I was mortified and considered running home to change. It dawned on me that I had committed a dreadful error, using lace in a way that was thoroughly tactless.
Fortunately I had the luxury of waking from the scene, donning my regular shoes, and starting over without any remnants of embarrassment.
If only all mistakes, great and small, could be shaken off as easily.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 5:36 PM