I lost my favorite hat yesterday. Aargh. I was riding the metro, engrossed in a book (Tales of a Female Nomad, by Rita Goldman Gelman) I got to my station and jumped up, not realizing until I exited the car that I didn't have my hat. I immediately jumped back on the train and started searching for my hat but I couldn't find it. I rode for three more stations, searching, but never found it. I am desolate. I LOVED that hat. I bought it in Camden, Maine over ten years ago and have worn it to protect me from rain and sun everywhere from Colorado to New Zealand, from Peru to Glastonbury.
I have felt somewhat self conscious wearing my hat in fashionable Paris. I think I've always been intimidated by the French notions of style. I've felt that my shoes were never pointy enough, my blouses never tight enough, my skirts never short enough. So as I walk around Paris in my jeans, Merrell lightweight hiking shoes and Patagonia layers (it's been cold here), I fear that my appearance shouts "American" - even though the clothes I've brought have been perfectly comfortable and perfectly appropriate for the weather conditions. I felt equally self conscious about my hat, in spite being complimented twice on the street. One French woman asked where she could find one like it in Paris, and another said it looked Brazilian and sexy. No one seemed to find it as dorky as I felt. And it has served me well, providing light weight sun protection as well as keeping me and my glasses dry in the rain.
Anyway, I'd become quite attached to the hat; but I have taken its loss as a message from the universe that it is time to let go of some old stories, and to develop a new look as I write a new story for myself. My first purchase? Some silly socks.
What did you expect? Dior?