Yesterday I got home from work and had to make a Target run. I needed dog food and a birthday present for my best friend's daughter and some other random things, along with whatever else would undoubtedly catch my eye because, come on, it’s Target--you know I’m not walking out with less than $100 worth of goodies, right? Right.
Anyway, so I come home with five Target bags and a giant bag of dog food (because the giant bags were on super sale, so… obviously), and I get in the elevator, and there’s this teeny tiny super old, hunched-over, swollen-ankled lady in the elevator. She’s basically as old-school (er—old-world, maybe—my building’s full of eastern Europeans) as it comes. Thick dark beige panty hose, calf-length thick brown summer wool skirt, blouse tucked in, cardigan, hair done. She’s easily in her mid-80s, I’d say. And very sweet. And so old (you'll understand my fixation on her aged-ness in a moment). And, side bar, I love when old women still “dress for the day,” right?! I mean, it was 7:00p.m. and she was still dressed for the day. I hope I'm that lady one day. Anyway, she asks for my floor and I tell her. And then, as we’re riding up in polite silence with occasional polite smiles at each other, I realize she has something very big in her hands. I sneak a peek, and what is it? What could it be? What could this sweet old eastern European lady in my building be carrying up at 7:00p.m. on a Tuesday evening?
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The Fall Fashion issue of Vogue, that's what. And now I’m in love with her. (Per my friend A's suggestion, I'm going to attempt to befriend this woman so that I can go through what I anticipate is an amazing collection of vintage Vogues, which I assume she keeps in chronological order on the massive bookshelves lining her living room walls... just imagine!)
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