Birthday togs, almost three weeks late. Dress from Old Gold, hat from The Vintage Hat Shop, jacket from Pegasus WW2 Displays via my wonderful mom. The last is part of a splendid summer-weight suit that I can’t wait to debut, provided the New England heat wave breaks sometime this century. At the current rate, it’ll be a bona fide antique before I’m ready to wear it.
This is a terrible time to get into ’30s and ’40s clothes, I realize. They’re disappearing by the day; Etsy prices are jacking by the hour. Why couldn’t my deco phrase precede midcentury modern? I’m doing my best to ease the ’50s dresses out of my wardrobe, only to find there’s nary a stitch to replace them with. At least I can sew, right?
Still, I have to say it’s worth it. I’ve never felt more like the platonic ideal of me as I do right now – specifically, as I did in this outfit. I want this exact ensemble in every color. I feel like Mary Poppins, only dispensing Dust Bowl charm in lieu of suspiciously fruity medicine.